


Chain Me Up and Tie Me Down

by favouritefi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favouritefi/pseuds/favouritefi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Really Gregory there is no need to be so hostile.”</p><p>“Piss off shitstain.”<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Werewolf!Greg and Vampire!Mycroft
> 
> (and eventually other creatures will also appear)
> 
> PLEASE READ THE CHAPTER NOTES AND SUMMARIES OR ELSE THIS WILL NOT MAKE MUCH SENSE. Ignore at your own risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little intro.

The silver was scarring his skin.

 

Greg shifted a tad hoping for relief and winced at the pain returned for his efforts.

 

The chair he was tied down to was unfairly plush, black, luxurious, and possibly worth more than Lestrade's entire year’s worth of pay.

 

A real shame it was dirtied by his blood.

 

Same with the carpet. And the doorframe. And the stairs. The stone path. The car.The silver handcuffs trapping his wrists, and in turn, him.

 

At least some of Greg’s blood had stained one of the henchmen’s immaculate suits. Werewolf blood is a bitch to get out.  

 

It was really the small victories that mattered.

 

A brute of a vampire to his left slapped his head just as the other on his right slammed merciless knuckles into his stomach. Fuck. He had taken too long to answer the question.

 

His legs shook. Even his species could only handle abuse for so long. Hours had gone by now, he was sure.

 

Greg hung his head, avoiding the unnaturally light eyes observing him with a detached curiosity and the dizzying smell of tobacco.

 

Breath in. Breath out.

 

“How unsurprising it is for a rebel leader to break so easily.”

 

The taunt caused an unrestrained growl to escape from his throat and Lestrade bared his teeth at the vamp sitting inappropriately delicate behind the mahogany desk. He snapped his jaws for good measure.

 

It only seemed to amuse his captor more.

 

“Really Gregory there is no need to be so hostile.”

 

“Piss off shitstain.”

 

Mycroft smiled like a lit forest and gracefully maneuvered himself around the rich wooden desk.

 

It was as if the very air parted in fear of him.

 

The vampire was made of thinly veiled threats and unconventional persuasions. A perfect fit for the new head of this totalitarian government (though he would never confirm that fact).

 

He stopped in front of Greg, just barely outside the range of the former DI’s dangerous canines.

 

“Must I remind you again that foul language will not be tolerated.”

 

This wasn't a question.

 

The words were bullets and Greg didn't have the strength to dodge them.

 

Long manicured fingers waved a precise pattern in front of the werewolf’s eyes and the pain of his silver handcuffs increased tenfold.

 

He hissed and bit down the string of curses bubbling in his throat.

 

The godforsaken dictator had to be a magic user too.

 

“Now” Mycroft moved in so close Greg could see a dusting of freckles on his cheeks. “Will you accept my proposal?”

 

Greg only growled in response and didn't even flinch when the cuffs tightened.

 

(He gave himself a silent pat on the back for that.)

 

The impeccably dressed Holmes pulled away from his prey and released a put upon sigh. Mycroft gave Lestrade the look one might bestow on a tantrum prone child.

 

Which in Mycroft’s world was exactly what Lestrade is.

 

“You are committing to pride and in turn to a tragic mistake. Surely you are not idiotic enough to be unaware of such.”

 

Mycroft glided back to his leather armchair behind the desk and settled in it like a throne.

 

“Do not let your stubbornness get in the way of possibilities for a happier future, Gregory. You would be much more comfortable under my possession than that of any other.”

 

The beaten and weary werewolf couldn't help it. He choked out a weak laugh.

 

“God you sickos really do think we're nothing but objects.”

 

“I prefer the term ‘pets’.”

 

“Well you aren't exactly the one being stamped with these demeaning labels now are you? I have the fucking right to call myself what I want.” Greg snapped his head up in biting defiance and stared into Mycroft’s eyes.

 

There was a cold glazed quality to them that chilled Lestrade and made the more primal parts of him, his wolf instincts, shudder.

 

He looked away to one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls.

 

“It’s not like either term is humane.” He spat some blood onto the carpet. The vampire to his left punched him again.

 

“I believe” Mycroft mused. “that calling your kind ‘pets’ suggests we comprehend and take into consideration your kind’s reckless emotions. Which we do.” He leant his cheek upon his hand.

 

“We are not as heartless as you think.”

 

“You just kidnapped me and interrogated me with violence for 4 hours straight.”

 

Lestrade’s restrained fists shook in barely contained anger.

 

“You didn’t even have the guts to do the fucking dirty work yourself. Can’t let your goddamn suits get bloodied right?”

 

The werewolf was rewarded with two more punches for his snark.

 

“Ah but my reasons are just.”

 

Mycroft watched blankly as Greg coughed yet more blood onto his shoes and carpet.

 

“You were inconvenient, attempting to arouse a revolution like that,” Mycroft tsked.

 

“I expected better from one in your position. Well,”

 

He smiled in a way that can only be cruel.

 

“your former position. You will not remain a Detective Inspector after this, love.”

 

If looks could kill Lestrade's glare would have been genocide.

 

“But enough excuses Gregory.” Mycroft steepled his fingers in a way that reminded Greg eerily of Sherlock.

 

“We both know that you have more to gain from this offer than any other alternatives.”

 

 _That would be because all my other “alternatives” are painful and slow deaths._ Thought Greg with bitterness.

 

It must have shown on his face because the vampire’s next smile was more a baring of fangs than an actual smile. But it was up for debate whether the creatures were even capable of sincere emotion.

 

Lestrade sighed through his nose and gritted his teeth.

 

“I am not becoming your Collared, Mycroft.”

 

“Would you rather be another’s, Gregory? Most vampires are not as kind as I.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “I didn't realize kindness was in your vocabulary.”

 

He got two kicks to the stomach his time.

 

“Oh my dear” A soft look of sympathy etched itself onto Mycroft’s face. If Greg didn't already know all of the bastard’s dirty tricks he could have fallen for it. A part of him wanted to fall for it.

 

“I would treat you so well.”

 

The vampire once again maneuvered himself closer to the werewolf.

 

“You would be pampered, cared for, loved. You would be personally trained into being worthy of an government official such as myself. A blissful, obedient lapdog ”

 

“I bet that isn’t just figurative either.” Lestrade cringed at the thought. It wasn't uncommon for Masters to use their Collared for recreational sex.

 

The vampire placed his lips dangerously close to Lestrade’s ear.

 

“I would never force you my dear Gregory. No,”

 

His voice was low.

 

“you will beg for me.”

 

Before Greg could register his increased heart rate and the shiver travelling down his spine Mycroft had already turned away from him. His silhouette was backlit by the dim fireplace.

 

“I shall gift you a second chance, love.” He looked over his shoulder. “Choose wisely.”

 

Lestrade stared at two fountain pens on Mycroft’s desk and worked his jaw.

 

It was no secret how vicious, cruel, and manipulative vampires were.

 

Greg had seen enough Collared victims to known first-hand the pain and mental strain. A Collared werewolf was considered property of its Master till death or until the vampire in question discarded their toy for a newer one.

 

Technically the agreement was supposed to be mutually desired by both sides, but there are ways around this.

 

Like kidnapping and beating said werewolf while forcing them to choose between being Collared, or death.

 

(It’s hard to say which one’s worse.)

 

Of course Greg being the new leader of the main rebel group against the vampires’ reign doesn’t really help matters. It makes him a target. He’s intriguing because he dared to rebel. Most vampires like a little fight in their pets.

 

Escape was damn near impossible if he agreed to be Collared.

 

But it was this or die.

 

Greg liked existing too much to die.

 

And he had a smudge of confidence he would not crack as easily as all the other Collareds. He was prepared. He had prior experience in this area. Hell, he’s even had tea before with his captor.

 

Maybe he was overconfident, desperate, or just plain stupid, but Lestrade felt he could take on Mycroft if need be.

 

In the end, what choice did he really have but that one?

 

The werewolf glared up at the calculated vampire and spat with as much poison as he could muster.

 

“Fine.”

 

A grin sliced itself across Mycroft’s face. It was brutal and grotesque. His fangs shined in the fire’s light.

 

Greg forced himself not to look away.

 

He needed to see his own end, even if it’s just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

 

Mycroft turned around and stroked Lestrade’s cheek with his thumb while he held down the werewolf’s shoulder with his other. Greg instinctively bared his throat to the vampire and tried with obvious discomfort to slow his pounding heart.

 

Mycroft brushed his lips against the werewolf’s heartbeat, the points of promising fangs teasing the skin there, and then sank in.

 

Greg had been expecting pain. He had tensed himself for it. But all he would feel was a blanket of calm and pleasure. Like he had just woken up from perfect dreams and is about to return to them.

 

As quickly as the fangs had come they disappeared.

 

The werewolf watched with fuzzy awareness as Mycroft whispered something into his ear and once again retreated to his mahogany desk.

 

The last thing Greg saw was the other’s light silver eyes boring into him.

 

God, what had he agreed to.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback.

Four months ago Randle Copperfield was Collared.

 

The local news stations made a huge deal out of it. Vampiric reporters swarmed and invaded his house. It was an intensely public humiliation.

 

Greg was at home when he saw the news.

 

He had just come back from work with his slowly depleting police force. No one wanted to be a werewolf officer nowadays. Those who stayed just kept getting Collared. They had no power anymore.

 

Werewolf police weren't allowed to prosecute a vampire suspect despite the fact most crimes in the area are committed by vampires.

 

Supposedly the vampires will control their own kind and vice versa with the werewolves, but Greg had filed a report a year ago to the vampiric branch of law enforcement and it’s still pending for viewing.

 

He had flopped onto the couch just as the broadcaster delivered a “special announcement”

**REBEL LEADER DEFEATED**

**COPPERFIELD COLLARED**

**TERRORIST TAMED**

 

**REBELLION HALTED**

  
**NUISANCE ERADICATED**

Lestrade watched numbly as he saw Randle’s face through the lenses of paparazzi and felt a sense of dread leach into him.

 

Shit. This meant-

 

His phone buzzed just as the reporter switched to the smug face of Copperfield's new Master.

 

_221B._

_Now._

_-SH_

 

Lestrade looked outside. A storm was brewing.

 

* * *

 

When he finally arrived Greg was soaked down to his claw-proof vest.

 

He recalls he didn't always wear the bulky thing, but memories from before the Takeover are always hazy. Like the past was just a collection of water stained photographs.

 

The slightly shivering werewolf shook off as much rain as possible and returned John’s waning smile when handed a cuppa tea.

 

Sherlock was sulking.

 

Or maybe he was thinking. No one but John can truly tell.

 

Lestrade mumbled yes to the doctor’s offer of biscuits and they sat down at the kitchen table. Both avoiding Sherlock’s experiments with practiced caution.

 

“Is the flat safe for conversation?” Greg took a sip from his cup.

 

John sighed. “As secure as it can get. Sherlock has been abusing his Powers and we really can’t keep the flat Closed 24/7 no matter what the self sacrificing git may think. He just doesn't have enough energy to do so.”

 

Technically a vampire can spy on any werewolf they wished, unless said werewolf was in the presence of another vamp. Some of them (like Sherlock) possess the Power to Close off a certain location or person from prying eyes, ears, and magics. No one should hear their conversation.

 

But of course this only works if Sherlock can actually use it.

 

Greg frowned. “Isn't he feeding from you?”

 

John looked down into his cup as if staring will solve all of the universe’s mysteries.

 

“Not even my blood can allow him to keep this up forever.”

 

The blond fiddled with the bronze tag attached to his blood-red Collar.

 

John and Sherlock are something of a miracle and the biggest exception to all the rules in this New World. One wherein vampires dominated with an iron fist.

 

But not only does John, a werewolf, have complete control over their relationship he was the one who suggested getting Collared. Sherlock agreed because it was the only way to keep other vampires from claiming John instead.

 

Doctors are still quite valuable even in a world full of undead, immortal bloodsuckers. They are said to be healthier and thus, tastier.

 

Other creatures are always surprised in the presence of the duo. Sherlock talks to John with nothing but respect and he is in fact one of the only people the vampire feels the need _to_ respect. John not only voices his opinions proudly but is able to alter Sherlock’s too.

 

The two even bicker like an old married couple and carry the well worn air of familiarity with them.

 

As far as Lestrade knows they are the only Collared pair whose ever been happy with their decision.

 

Many idolized the two and claimed that they were the “ideal couple”. Sherlock only scoffed at the over-romanticized notion and John politely replied that the Collar was simply mutually beneficial.

 

John doesn't have to worry about vampires jumping him on the streets. And Sherlock gets a willing food source that, because of the magic involved with being Collared, allows him to gain thrice as much strength from John’s blood than that of any other.

 

It works well. At least in their case.

 

But they were always the exception.

 

John was a military doctor and soldier and a warrior who remains the one of the most moral men Greg knows despite having seen the worst life has to offer.

 

Sherlock was on the side of the rebellion. He was fighting against his own kind. His own brother.

 

In fact he was probably thinking of whom to replace their disgraced leader, the exact number of steps needed to overthrow Mycroft, some unsolved cold case, whether they should get take-out tonight, the meaning of life, and a trillion other things.

 

Meanwhile the two werewolves just sat around and drank tea.

 

“You know what he’s going to ask of you.” John tapped the handle of his mug.

 

“He knows you're far from ready but he’s going to ask you anyways.”

 

John looked up at Greg; sad, serious, and sincere.

 

“Don't let him force you.”

 

“No need for me to John.” Sherlock appeared next to them, startling Greg. John simply pouted in an entirely _not_ adorable fashion (shut up Sherlock).

 

“Lestrade decided long before he arrived.”

 

Blue eyes that were more weapons than anything else focused their aim upon Greg.

 

“You’re the rebellion’s new leader.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More world building wooooo


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake up ya doofus.

One of the most useful things Greg has learned from being in the force is the ability to fake sleep and the instinct to know when to do so.

 

Thus when he regained consciousness his first action was to take no action at all.

 

The surface beneath him was soft and enveloping. Probably some ridiculously expensive memory foam with an unnecessarily large thread count.

 

The air smelled damp and dusty. A guest room that was barely occupied.

 

He felt young and refreshed, like he just stepped out of a cramped office and into air that had been graced by spring wind.

 

What the hell was he doing here? What the bloody hell happened to him?

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

He was Mycroft’s bitch now.

 

Lestrade shot up in bed breathing erratically and scanned his new prison in a frenzy.

 

The room was filled to the brim with inviting sunshine. It contained a tall dresser opposite to the bed and an open door to the right of the bed.

 

Greg looked over the lamp to his left and gazed through the unnaturally crisp window.

 

Trees going on for hundreds of miles and disappearing into the sky.

 

Definitely an illusion then. He’s sure he’s still in London. Though it really doesn’t surprise Lestrade that Mycroft would go to such lengths to disguise his home.

 

He probably has more assassins on his case than most presidents.

 

Greg balled up his fists in silky bedsheets and inspected himself.

 

Everything seemed to have mended (thank God for werewolf durability), the scars on his wrists were faint lines, and he had received a new set of clothes. Kicking off the duvet revealed a black pair of what Molly calls “booty shorts” and a white button up that was too long for his arms.

 

Lestrade rolled thin sleeves up to his elbows and in doing so finally noticed the heavy weight constricting his neck.

 

His ball and chain.

 

His Collar.

 

He gingerly felt around the cursed restraint with wary fingers and discovered it was studded. There were no mirrors in the room, probably an intentional taunt from Mycroft.

 

He stretched, got up, and peeked into the hallway.

 

It seemed to be an endless corridor on the left and a nearly endless one on the right. If he walked past 20 or so doors he could make a left turn.

 

Greg pulled his pepper and salt bedhead back into the room and opened the dresser. There was no way in Hell he was walking around in these ridiculously small and tight shorts.

 

The dresser was empty.

 

A very confused werewolf patted around the bare wooden space with growing frustration.

 

Mycroft is obviously a little shithead.

 

Greg sighed with boiling annoyance at the fact that the asshat of a vampire somehow managed to be a total prick without even being in the room.

 

He self-consciously attempted to pull down the hem of his shorts before traipsing into the hallway.

 

The skimpily clad werewolf had just turned the corner and would have gone on down the stairs if a glittering shine hadn’t caught his eye.

 

Greg stood stockstill in the middle of two mirrors facing eachother. They created an infinity, as if there were a long winding tunnel within the two reflections. Both reached from the burgundy carpet to the vaulted ceiling.

 

He saw his Collar.

 

The werewolf blinked, a little dazed, and tentatively approached the mirror to his right.

 

The gleaming band was insanely shiny and appeared to be made of silver. But Greg felt no pain and thus wagered it was platinum. The Collar was marked by most likely magical runes embedded with a seriously outlandish amount of diamonds.

 

There was a bejeweled “M” nested between Lestrade’s collarbones.

 

It was flashy, showy, expensive, and stood out like a supernova against his skin.

 

He fucking hated it.

 

For a moment Greg stood shell shocked at his own image.

 

There are kids starving to death because their parents couldn’t buy food. He has seen mothers cry over their dead babies because most werewolves can no longer afford health care. He’s seen teens attack others just for a couple bucks and a pack of mints. He’s seen the lack of money destroy so many lives.

 

The Collar on his neck could feed the entire werewolf population of London for weeks. Maybe months.

 

Greg grazed his fingers along the Collar’s reflection.

 

He smashed it so fucking hard his fist punched to the wall.

 

The rage fueled werewolf unleashed a barrage of resentment upon the mirror until the previously intimidating decor shattered into cracks and slivers and makeshift knives.

 

The hall echoed with the sound of destruction and of flesh on glass.

 

Then, surrounded by a lake of glittering shards, Lestrade slid down and sliced his knees in the process. A path of red followed his clenched bloodied knuckles.

 

He was panting. Nearly crying. Definitely cursing.

 

The Collar seemed to stifle his Powers and he couldn’t transform. Greg would have destroyed both mirrors in one go if he could. He probably can’t heal himself either but God, he just didn’t give a flying fuck at that moment.

 

Four months. Four months of rebellion, of fighting, of work. Of trying to keep everyone’s spirit going. Of promising freedom and peace.

 

Now look at him; captured, Collared, and caged.

 

Soon reporters will ransack his home. Soon Mycroft’s smug face will gloat on the telly. And Greg will be yet another failed rebel leader in a unfairly long string of failed rebel leaders.

 

There is a very consuming sort of grief in knowing you disappointed everyone.

 

Which is why Lestrade didn’t resist when two vampire henchmen slowly dragged him away, leaving a trail of wasted blood in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect another flashback soon. There's just so much to explain! Gah!
> 
> Oh also next chapter update may be early, I might post tomorrow just because I can. Plus I really want to hurry this story along. 
> 
> We haven't gotten to the good bits yet!!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fated meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! Yeah!

Greg first met Mycroft (in person) on a Thursday.

 

It was too bloody late at night. The imposing vampire had stood purposefully against the wind and was lit by the dimmest of street lamps.

 

Lestrade couldn’t get a whiff of him.

 

However he could see a dark blue suit worth too fucking much and a black umbrella that was probably a fucking gun or some shit.

 

This was before the Takeover, but even then shifts at the yard were long and Greg really didn’t feel like talking to menacingly handsome strangers under sketchy streetlights.

 

He had almost bypassed the vampire before the surprisingly heavy umbrella collided with his stomach. Lestrade immediately faced his foe and was about to scream at the bloke when he noticed something.

 

The man’s eyes were glossed over with suggestive magic and glowed silver in the premature darkness of fall. 

 

Greg couldn’t remember feeling so terrified.

 

He would have transformed out of pure panic if it weren’t for the practiced tone of the practiced voice.

 

“Sirius is the Dog Star.”

 

The vampire was staring at some far off point in the sky, his eyes a pale shade of grey.

 

A confused and rather distracted werewolf attempted to follow the other’s gaze but gave up in favour of inspecting the nonsensical stranger instead.

 

“Are you trying’ to rile me up? ‘Cause mission bloody accomplished with flying colours.”

 

The vampire removed his umbrella from its position against Greg and rested long pale fingers upon its handle.

 

“It is the brightest star in the sky.”

 

Lestrade could have (and should have) ran for the hills if need be, but for some reason he could not fathom, he stayed.

 

Whenever he spared a moment to ponder at this memory he can never quite comprehend what caused him to pay attention to that rambling git. He’s not sure he regrets his decision either.

 

“Yet no matter the night; Sirius, the dog, cannot catch Lepus, the hare.”

 

“Are you a posh astronomy professor or something?”

 

“I am afraid not.”

 

Unsettlingly alert eyes flickered to Greg.

 

“I am Mycroft.”

 

The no longer nameless vampire turned to Greg with a tight smile. It looked like he had just bitten a very ripe lemon.

 

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

The werewolf blinked a couple times, squinted his eyes accusingly, and barked out a laugh.

 

One laugh turned into a chuckle, then a rumble, then a series of hiccuping giggles until the near hysterical man clapped a hand onto the startled vampire’s shoulder.

 

“You Holmes boys are too goddamn dramatic. I mean seriously, a dark and empty street on a dark and empty night? You could have just cornered me at the pub.”

 

For a moment Mycroft looked at a complete loss for words. (Greg will come to learn that this is a very very rare occurrence.) He pursed his lips.

 

“You are aware of my relation to Sherlock.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes, all hardships of the day forgotten in his new discovery.

 

“I may not have the Power of Sight like your pain in the ass brother but I’m not bloody blind Mister Holmes. Hope you didn’t fall for the outdated stereotype that all werewolves are simple minds bound by our simple natures.”

 

The DI raised his eyebrows, the hint of a smile on his face.

 

“You didn’t bring any dog treats with you right? I admit I’m a bit peckish but I have a diet to keep up with you know.”

 

This brought a genuine smirk to the formerly stoic vampire’s face. It was small, delicate, and barely noticeable (just a twitch of a lip really) but it was there.

 

“Do not worry Detective Inspector, I fully empathize with your dietary woes...I brought vegan canine biscuits.”

 

Lestrade’s grin outshone Sirius.

 

“Call me Greg.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes crinkled at the edges.

 

“It’s a pleasure, Gregory.”

 

He meant it this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok expect another update tomorrow cause damn I am on a roll.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven bound savior.
> 
> (Continues from after Greg smashed the mirror.)

Blood loss did not invalidate Lestrade’s abilities and he managed to memorize at least a quarter of the path leading to his destination.

 

The trio, two gigantic vampires and a very limp werewolf in between them, travelled down twisting hallways with nearly identical doors.

 

It was less of a maze and more of an unfinished mouse trap.

 

Greg had thought he would never reach the end of this nightmare but was awakened by a sight he never thought he would see again.

 

“Molly.”

 

Lestrade spoke the word like a prayer.

 

Molly simply smiled her adorably awkward smile while holding a rather large first aid kit in her hands. She stood in the middle of a grand ballroom under a chandelier thrice her size.

 

Greg was dumped unceremoniously in front of the nervous girl who immediately got to work.

 

She had just bandaged the werewolf’s hands when he flung shaky arms around her and hung on tight. He trembled.

 

Molly hugged him back.

 

“Hi Greg.”

 

“I thought he killed you. I was so sure he would I-”

 

“He nearly did.”

 

Her voice was squeaky.

 

“But then he said...he said I was a horrible angel but…. an angel nonetheless.”

 

Greg pulled away from Molly.

 

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?!”

 

She wouldn’t look up at him. Evidently her twiddling thumbs were infinitely more interesting.

 

“I think it’s his excuse for letting me go.”

 

Molly lifted the first aid kit with a weak smile.

 

“On the condition I take care of you. But really I was going to do that anyways.”

 

“Bloody hell Molly...you’re luckier than a leprechaun.”

 

She laughed, light and cheery, at his disbelieving expression.

 

“Yes well he just might change his mind if I let you bleed all over this floor.”

 

Thus the disinfection resumed.

 

“...How are the others doing?”

 

Molly withheld an answer for a moment, and when she spoke she did so in carefully chosen chunks.

 

“The rebellion is scattered. Sherlock is working on finding the next leader for the job but he”

 

An amused grin found home on her lips.

 

“he said that they ‘are all moronic buffoons with their brains up their arse and horseshit in their heads.’”

 

Greg snorted. He could imagine Sherlock saying it, all posh accent and disdain.

 

Molly giggled.

 

“John said he was just saying that because for once people didn’t want to be pawns in his losing game. Sherlock was surprised John knew what chess was.”

 

At that Lestrade shook his head with a repressed smile.

 

“For a genius he can be so daft.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Molly had just finished bandaging his wounds. She checked over each bunch of cloth.

 

“Sorry I can’t just Heal you...but Mycroft insisted you heal by yourself as punishment for breaking his mirror.”

 

Lestrade pouted with exaggerated puppy eyes just because Molly would laugh if he did.

 

She rolled her own eyes before doing so.

 

“Now now stop looking so dopey, you can yell at him when he comes back tonight.”

 

She took Greg’s hand and tried to lift him up. Werewolves however, are rather heavy.

 

“I think it’s about time to get you some _actual_ clothes.”

 

Lestrade huffed and blushed the colour of bunny noses. He tugged out of Molly’s hold and stood up with arms crossed, suddenly once again acutely aware of his showy shorts.

 

Molly gave him a empathic look.

 

“Don’t worry Greg. The first time I woke up here I was wearing a see-through nightie and lace stockings.”

 

Before the peach-red werewolf could dignify a response to that imagery Molly had already walked past the two vampiric guards and gestured at him to follow.

 

Lestrade glared warily at the unmoving guards before scrambling after the tiny brunette.

 

The unconventional angel guided Greg down stairs and halls while explaining the purposes of almost every room they passed.

 

Molly has always been a wild card, even more so than Sherlock.

 

Angels are commonly unpredictable.

 

But even amongst her own kind Molly was a black sheep. Angels live by a born and bred rule to not interfere with other species and only affected the world when it was dying. In the entirety of recorded history angels have only intervened twice.

 

They are a reclusive breed with an instinctual fear of death.

 

Molly lived in the UK’s most populated city and worked in a morgue.

 

She claimed to be neutral and neither agreed nor disagreed with the Takeover. However it’s that exact attitude that allows her to be so involved with both sides.

 

For the werewolves she was a Healer and a custodian of the dead. For the vampires she was a ghostly trespasser with useful information on pet care.

 

For Greg she was just Molly Hooper.

 

Happy and sometimes scarily intelligent Molly Hooper who was now showing him his new wardrobe.

 

The formerly empty closet in his room was now filled to the brim with clothing organized by colour palette.

 

It was pretty damn intimidating.

 

The newly Collared werewolf reached out a tentative hand and brushed against the nearest piece of cloth. It was even softer than the bed. It smelled nice too, like what the idealized smell of lilacs would be.

 

After admiring for a few moments Greg realized each outfit was embroidered with silver thread.

 

_Property of Mycroft Holmes_

 

The neat cursive made his chest ache. For the rest of his short life (when compared to a vampire’s) he is property. He belonged to someone in the most humiliating sense of the word. He is an object and a reward. A caught prize. A trophy.

 

He felt like hurling.

 

Molly rested a tiny hand on Lestrade’s back and rubbed circles with her thumb.

 

She held him firmly through his silent sobs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENTER MOLLY HOOPER  
> I know including her as an angel is kinda cheesy but you will see why this is important later I promise
> 
> ok once again it will be regular weekends updates instead of me just spamming ya guys


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback.
> 
> (This is before the Takeover and after their first meeting)

By their fifth physical encounter Greg learned that Mycroft really was on a diet.

 

He only drank from vegans and kept fit at his private gym.

 

The only reason Greg was aware of this fact is because Sherlock keeps a picture of Mycroft in sweats as blackmail for when the detective feels particularly childish. Lestrade had messaged the photo to his own phone when the two brothers were fighting.

 

It was his background picture.

 

He glanced at it in the sleek black car but then turned his attention to the tinted windows. This would be their eleventh meeting. It was a longer ride than usual.

 

Lestrade turned his head to face Mycroft’s PA (she’s Annalise today) but then promptly shut his mouth. The girl was typing furiously and a little crease was beginning to form between her brows.

 

Last time Greg had attempted conversation in her current state he was nearly pushed out of a moving car.

 

The werewolf grimaced at the memory and looked out the window again, though this time, more fidgety.

 

When the leg jiggling became truly irritating Annalise slammed her Blackberry into her lap and shot a coldy murderous glare at Lestrade. Her brown curls framed her face.

 

“We are using much more time than anticipated because the location is on the other side of London. You have been forced into a suit because I pity your dirty grey dress shirts. Please refrain from asking how we acquired your measurements and the price of said suit. You’re welcome.”

 

Lestrade shut his mouth again.

 

She turned away from him with a well placed hair flip.

 

Lestrade slumped back in the leather seat.

 

He knew Mycroft was a “minor government official” but it was still pretty creepy how the man and his PA seemed to know everything about anything while Greg was still stuck on how phone alarms worked.

 

Several long moments passed in thick and tense silence with much less fidgeting.

 

Finally the driver stopped, opened the door, and let a rather nervous werewolf out.

 

They lingered in front of a golden and most likely five star restaurant. The kind of which Greg didn’t realize existed and certainly never expected to enter.

 

He gulped and marched in geared for war.

 

The place was jarringly empty.

 

At first the bumbling DI was sure a grave mistake had been made until a short lad came up to him. He looked like a waiter and smelled like a werewolf.

 

“Congratulations sir, your date has booked out the entire building for your evening. Please follow me.”

 

Greg was tempted to correct the champ (he sure as hell wasn’t Mycroft’s date) but the bloke had already opened the shining crystal elevator and he had no choice but to rush in.

 

The empty lobby felt too much like an abandoned playground.

 

As they ascended Lestrade realized any attempts to correct the boy would have been useless. I mean Mycroft has literally reserved the whole bloody building just so the two of them could talk.

 

He felt like an awkward highschooler all over again.

 

The ride dinged to a stop and the waiter immediately stepped out. Greg hurried after.

 

They crossed a red carpeted hall and the younger werewolf opened two golden doors with the swipe of a card.

 

Lestrade’s jaw dropped.

 

He stared greedily at the panoramic windows displaying a near 360 degrees view of London. There were no tables to block his view except for one. And at that lone table, in the middle of the outrageously large room, sat a docile Mycroft.

 

Mycroft’s gaze skimmed over Lestrade in an almost devourous manner. But then he looked into the DI’s eyes and smiled like they were just two friends having a chat. A couple blokes out for a pint.

 

On the other side of London.

 

In a romantic restaurant.

 

Eating by candlelight.

 

Yep. Totally normal.

 

The werewolf kinda felt like jumping out the floor-to-ceiling windows but somehow ended up sitting across from Mycroft. The sound of closing doors indicating they were well and truly alone.

 

For the first time Greg saw the flawlessly dressed vampire look a bit flustered.

 

“You look fantastic.”

 

Mycroft looked just as surprised as Lestrade at his comment. He coughed a bit and licked his lips. If the DI didn’t know better he would have said the other man was blushing.

 

“Pardon me, I meant to say that it's a lovely suit you’re wearing. Annalise picked it I presume?”

 

Greg finally took a real good look at his suit.

 

It included a black dress shirt covered by a gray jacket. His tie was white silk embroidered with subtle light gray designs. His pocket chief appeared to be made of the same material. It fit him well and hugged him in all the right places.

 

He probably looked downright fuckable.

 

“Yeah, she basically forced me into this.”

 

Greg smiled with the kind of confidence one gets from compliments.

 

“That girl knows her stuff.”

 

Mycroft only hmms in response. And if silver eyes happen to linger a bit longer than they normally do; well, that’s something only the two of them needs to know.

 

The dinner continues from there.

 

Everything laid before Greg is delicious and indescribable. The wine like nectar on his tongue.

 

Mycroft eventually confessed that renting out the entire building is for the view.

 

“Though the privacy is a bonus.”

 

He continued talking about stars, pointed to them on occasion.

 

His voice had the attractive quality of being so confusingly alluring that Mycroft could be talking in binary and Greg would still be enraptured.

 

They talked for hours. About stars and planets and London and food.

 

They talked till the moon had swam across the sky, bringing with it the first flecks of light.

 

The vampire just finished a rant about Orion’s belt when Lestrade popped the question.

 

“Do you lecture all of Sherlock’s friends on astronomy and serve them expensive dinners?”

 

“Only the pretty ones.”

 

Greg choked on his wine while Mycroft hid a smile behind his glass.

 

Several moments passed wherein Greg simply stared first stunned and then contemplative at Mycroft. Mycroft stared back.

 

Neither blinked.

 

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand through his already greying hair. He pouted up at the vampire sitting all too innocently across from him.

 

“You know if you fancied me you should have just said so.”

 

He stood and leaned across the lavish meal and cupped Mycroft’s face in his hands. Silver eyes glittered with astonishment and anticipation.

 

“I assumed my intentions were very clear.”

 

The vampire’s cologne was woody but not obnoxiously so.

 

“Nah, they weren't. ”

 

Greg’s breath ghosted across the other’s lips.

 

"Listen Mycroft, next time we’re gonna have a proper date at my place.”

 

He grabbed the man's striped tie.

 

“I’ll cook.”

 

There were constellations on the vampire’s face.

 

“You’ll forget about that bloody diet of yours.”

 

Lestrade wanted to count every freckle.

 

“And it will be bloody fantastic.”

 

He wanted to kiss every star.

 

Mycroft’s voice was so so gentle when he finally spoke.

 

“Anything you want, I would give.”

 

His words were too close. His lips were too close. His almost smile was too close.

 

“I want you.”

 

Mycroft tasted like rust. Like the the wine they just shared. Like peaches and comets and the surreal blue before a hurricane.

 

Greg doesn't remember ever stopping that kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was fun to write, same with the next chapter.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg sees Mycroft again.
> 
> (This is after the chapter wherein Molly patches Greg up.)

The first time Greg transformed for Mycroft they had known each other for over a year.

 

They were both drunk off their asses.

 

Lestrade is a European Gray Wolf, a rare and declining breed. In this form he loomed over Mycroft for once and possessed gleaming silver fur; silken to the touch.

 

Greg doesn’t know this but his coat is the exact hue of Mycroft’s eyes when magicked.

 

Said eyes were staring at him in focussed awe.

 

And in the implied silence of appreciative fear.

 

Right now though Mycroft looked blank.

 

Lestrade glared up at his new Master from his spot on the warm hardwood. He clenched the weather worn book in his hands a little tighter than before.

 

The vampire simply observed him with detached tranquility.

 

Contrary to what Molly had said, Mycroft did not return that evening. In fact he didn’t return from wherever the hell he was for several long evenings.

 

Greg had been left alone for over a week. Enough time to explore the boundless mansion and to discover a library. He brewed his anger daily between its shelves.

 

Now that the cause of his rage was before him the hunched werewolf felt achingly empty.

 

The two conflicting forces continued their battle of wills.

 

Neither blinked.

 

Their only audience were the aged and yellowed books.

 

Finally Mycroft kneeled down. He sat on his knees. At this angle he was (at least physically) on the same level has his new pet.

 

Greg narrowed his eyes. This action is far too much of a performance to be natural.

 

He set his book down.

 

“Gregory please stop behaving so-”

 

“Childishly? Because I’ve just been fucked over by my best friend.”

 

Mycroft flinched. Actually flinched.

 

The Collared werewolf supposed he should feel pride for inflicting some semblance of emotion upon the bastard but the only feeling within his reach was the heavy weight around his neck.

 

“I fucking trusted you Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Lestrade's eyes were the colour of red stained wood.

 

“I fucking adored you.”

 

The words were a thousand tons and worthy of a thousand repeats. But the past tense turned the romantic declaration into an ancient tragedy.

 

For a moment Mycroft looked like he imploded. Greg thought he might even apologize but what came out instead were ever more painted excuses.

 

“If I hadn’t taken you someone else would have.”

 

“That doesn’t justify any kidnappings in the history of ever. It also doesn’t explain why the hell you beat me up bloody!”

 

“Because you are incapable of reason!”

 

The besuited man’s voice rose but he composed himself the next second.

 

“The entire werewolf population is slowly being domesticated. You were being tracked Gregory, and by one of the most despicable creatures I had the mispleasure of meeting. Can you not see I am protecting you? Would you really have preferred to be a random stranger’s plaything?”

 

The werewolf’s jaw was tight.

 

“No I don’t fucking see. Because that isn’t the fucking real reason.”

 

His nails bit into his palm. “You’re just scared. You’re just a greedy brat hogging a toy, not even realizing you’re ripping its head off.”

 

“Whatever harm I bestowed upon you was nesscar-”

 

“BULLSHIT.”

 

Greg shot up.

 

An awful mixture of fury and mourning contorted his visage.

 

“I know you were on the committee Mycroft.” His voice contained a shaky undertone. “I know you voted on the Takeover.” His voice was a trembling mess. “I know you voted yes.”

 

The vampire at least had the decency to look abashed.

 

There was a pause.

 

“I had no choice in the matter.”

 

“Stop lying to me.”

 

“I am not.”

 

Mycroft transitioned into a standing position with an elegantly controlled anger. He had the tendency to dominate anyone, including Greg.

 

“This wasn’t supposed to occur. The plan had been set many decades before. I was to obey it. We were all to obey.”

 

He moved closer to the alarmed werewolf who moved unconsciously backwards.

 

“But you charged into my life.” His voice tasted like burnt regret.

 

“You were the imperfect cog in a perfect plan.”

 

He was close enough for Lestrade to smell his cologne. The horrified Collared cupped weak hands over his mouth and nose.

 

“If I hadn’t encountered you, if it hadn’t been for…sentiment, we would both be happier.”

 

The vampire suddenly seemed entirely impassive and disconnected. A frozen machine.

 

He gifted to the space a moment of nothingness.

 

“I wonder why I loved you.”

 

Greg’s response was sharp in the way an ending is sharp.

 

“Because you’re an idiot.”

 

He removed his hands from his face and allowed them to freefall to his side.

 

“And that makes me an idiot too.”

 

Timeless silence swirled around the two. It was painful.

 

Lestrade arched his head back to stare at the library's painted ceiling. Mycroft openly stared at his throat.

 

It was such a loathsome silence.

 

“You never fail to surprise me Gregory.” The vampire’s voice was only quiet due to a delectable distraction.

 

“That too. You love the shock value.”

 

“I suppose I do.”

 

Abruptly but expectedly Mycroft turned on his heel and marched out of the library. Before he truly departed he stopped a tad uncertainly at the doorway. Doubt was a nice look for him in Greg’s opinion.

 

“Dinner is at six rather than seven.”

 

Lestrade closed his eyes and listened to the light retreating steps of his Master.

 

He imagined that his Collar was silver. He imagined he hurt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really liking this whole story then flashback style and will probably continue using it yep yep.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knew, even before the Takeover.
> 
> (Flashback)

It was a tie between John and Molly for being the first to notice.

 

Lestrade entered the morgue as Sherlock left it. The werewolf didn’t know it at the time but he was to be more or less trapped with two very determined and probing companions for the next ten minutes.

 

It began with John.

 

“So...Mycroft has been showing up at crime scenes a lot lately.”

 

The ID cocked an eyebrow.

 

“Well, you and Sherlock have been doing stupider things lately.”

 

Molly frowned.

 

“John and Sherlock have been fine Greg...you were the only one injured by that feral teenager last week.”

 

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything?”

 

“Molly means,” John looked like he had stumbled upon the Holy Grail. “That Mister Mycroft I’m-above-emotions Holmes, spent days, _literal days_ , at your bedside.”

 

“He was just concerned. You know I’m Sherlock’s only caretaker aside from you.”

 

“He brought you muffins.”

 

Lestrade never knew Molly could look so smug.

 

“Sherlock nicked one,” John failed to contain his smirk. “He said Mycroft made them from scratch.”

 

The DI stared between the two sly devils he had foolishly befriended. Why are the cuddly ones always the scariest?

 

Lestrade was tempted to simply bolt out of the room but alas that would be undignified and he was almost certain John could stop him.

 

Greg swallowed, sighed, and resolutely pushed down his blush.

 

“Alright so...me and...and Mycroft... may have…” He waved his hand in a vague manner. “a thing.”

 

Molly nodded with closed eyes and John’s grin was ecstatic.

 

“I knew it.”

 

“Sherlock owes me 20 pounds!”

 

The duo then continued to harass Greg about his relationship while simultaneously sounding so congratulatory and happy for him that the werewolf couldn’t even maintain a dab of annoyance.

 

Eventually even Lestrade’s co-workers caught on when the costly gifts began arriving at the station. They were always beautiful, thoughtful, and expensive.

 

Anderson made it his life’s mission to figure out who this mysterious admirer was and Sally just snickered whenever Greg entered a room. It seemed like half the workplace was betting on the answer.

 

However everything was accidently thrown into the open when the DI gave Mycroft a careless kiss in public simply out of habit.

 

Sherlock’s scream rivaled that of a banshee.

 

Thankfully both Mycroft and Lestrade are too far below the radar for the media to really care about them (werewolf and vampire couples are something of rarity) yet word still got around anyways.

 

People teased Greg about Mycroft lots and he just laughed it off good-naturally. But some went a bit too far as to give him supposed warnings.

 

Whispering about how you can’t change baser instincts.

 

About how vampires were indestructible evil.

 

How their relationship was unachieveable.

 

Greg usually kicked them out of his office.

 

It really wasn’t healthy to have an outdated view point like that in his opinion. Vampires and werewolves have gotten along for hundreds of years and things have been peachy. It was just at the beginning, when humans still roamed, that things were...complicated.

 

But that was too long ago for anyone to remember.

 

Lestrade figured that the past when resolved should stay resolved. Poking at it sure as hell wasn’t gonna change it.

 

Besides, Mycroft would never hurt him.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg’s kidnappers were vampiric but thankfully magicless.

 

They had him drugged up on just enough wolfsbane to dizzy him but not enough to kill him. The rumpled DI lay upon the concrete floor in a half transformed heap.

 

His captor’s fuzzy faces were obscured by black handkerchiefs and their golden eyes were too bright in the midst of the warehouse’s dusty lighting.

 

From Lestrade’s perspective they were black playdough with yellow beads jammed inside.

 

So really his laughter was completely warranted but the punches he received were not.

 

The black blobs were yelling, first at Greg, then at each other, and then into phones.

 

The high as helium werewolf was too incoherent to give them answers of any value despite violent questioning using unorthodox methods.

 

If shaking him doesn’t work the first time, it isn’t gonna work the next seventy times.

 

Now hold on, these vampires weren’t fucking amateurs. They were hardened criminals of epic proportions! They were total badasses! It was just their first kidnapping alright give them a fucking break.

 

Sure it was probably ill-advised to kidnap anyone based on weak rumours, but apparently one of the guys high on the ladder had a consort.

 

And really the temptation of a huge ransom was just too great to resist.

 

However none of them expected said consort to be a very pissed, very male, and very powerful werewolf who only went down after a 6 against 1 fight and 14 wolfsbane tranqs.

 

Also his drool was supremely gross.

 

The kidnappers just really wanted to demand some cash and get rid of this pain in the arse werewolf. However none of the gossip had detailed exactly whom this werewolf belonged to and it’s not like Greg was gonna tell them.

 

As they continued arguing about which one of them came up with this dumbass idea a shadow fizzed into existence.

 

It was a besuited man.

 

It was a vampire.

 

Immediately the criminals trained six iron bullet guns upon the intruder’s chest.

 

There was a scene of anticipation filled tenison.

 

Then all hell broke loose.

 

Greg watched through a fog of delusion as Mycroft Holmes single handedly defeated six vampires all twice his size.

 

He didn’t use magic like the way Lestrade’s seen him do so many times before. Usually when Mycroft wanted to incapacitate anyone he simply performed a complex hand gesture and everyone would be down for the count. It was clean and easy.

 

But what happened to the kidnappers was anything but.

 

Mycroft killed them all with his bare hands.

 

His clothes were ripped at some parts.

 

His ginger-brown locks were red.

 

Mycroft looked wild.

 

Mycroft looked ravenous.

 

If the DI didn’t know any better Greg would have said he looked...feral. But only werewolves can become feral so whatever the hell Mycroft was doing must me something else.

 

It must be his true self showing.

 

Lestrade felt petrified, but also in awe, and (if he was being honest) a little aroused. He found it in him to get up and walk with child-like incoordination towards Mycroft.

 

Nothing like a good and proper bloodbath to get the adrenalin screaming.

 

In the aftermath of the disaster six bodies lay upon the gore stained floor.

 

Two of them lay next to their own hearts, ripped from their chests. Two were removed of all limbs and then decapitated. Two looked like a mush of meat, so shredded that Greg could not tell they were formerly beings of any sort.

 

Mycroft was a bloodied flag post amongst the wreckage of his making.

 

Lestrade stood on unsteady legs just behind the vampire.

 

“M...Mycroft….”

 

The name’s owner turned at a tedious speed.

 

Mycroft’s eyes were bleeding magic.

 

The sparkly silver goo looked like tears filled with all of the cosmos. It leaked from his completely silver eyeballs and dripped onto the plasma encrusted floor. A cloud of glittering smoke slipped out of Mycroft's mouth.

 

_**“Don’t come any closer.”** _

 

Greg’s ears popped from the sheer force of those words, he pushed against them hurriedly and found them bleeding.

 

Mycroft was a nebula. Too fast and too dangerous and too much.

 

His magic suggested the possibility of grandous torture upon those who dared near it.

 

If the werewolf wasn’t higher than the stratosphere Greg would have listened to the vampire’s warning, but he was really out of it and thus he made poor decisions.

 

He hugged Mycroft.

 

For a quarter of a second time stopped.

 

Then it cracked.

 

Then it crumbled.

 

All at once the malevolent magic sank back into its owner. It was like popping a balloon. A very forceful and hazardous balloon.

 

The bloody suited vampire deflated in Greg’s arms. He stilled. Then shook. Then began blubbering nonsense into Lestrade’s shoulder, staining the black jacket with silver gunk.

 

He sounded like he was apologizing.

 

He sounded like he was crying.

 

He sounded like he was saying Lestrade’s name over and over again.

 

In an unexpected light of concentrated thought through his drug addled mind the DI felt a stabbing sense of gratitude.

 

It was inconceivable that someone as world-shattering as Mycroft-fucking-Holmes would settle for someone as simple as Greg. It was impossible that someone as composed as the British-fucking-government would destroy their mask and reveal all that they are in Greg’s arms.

 

It was unthinkable to imagine that Greg was Mycroft’s weakness.

 

Mycroft could annihilate the werewolf with a mere thought.

 

But Greg had halted him at his most unstable, and held him at his most vulnerable.

 

If anyone were to ask the werewolf how he managed to do what he just did, how he could touch the vampire with such unwavering trust, his naive answer would be this:

 

Mycroft would never hurt him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty long, at least for me anyways. Can't say I will keep this up though, longer chapters take longer to write.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep sorry for the lateness! Enjoy a longer than usual chapter to make up for it~

Lestrade eventually finished washing up for dinner and buttoned his vest with prolonged care. It was unnecessarily slow and completely fulfilling.

 

He tugged at his sleeves and idly polished gold cufflinks with his fingers. He brushed along pale scars forever corrupting his wrists. Greg yanked at the bejeweled “M” upon his Collar once, twice, and then held it till the edges left red marks upon his palm.

 

He left his room.

 

The newly replaced hallway mirrors reflected an image the werewolf was sure he would never get used to.

 

His reflection wore a black button up with sleeves rolled to the elbows, a cutting white vest, grey suit pants, and a pair of oxfords. The Collar was an illuminated tattoo against his attire.

 

For the first time since the Takeover Greg actually looked...well-dressed.

 

Shame that it had to be under these circumstances.

 

Mycroft didn’t force him to appear proper because he cared about Greg’s state of dress in any way, not really. It’s just because he represented Mycroft now, and thus he needed to look the part.

 

The clothes are just another way to claim Greg, an excuse to parade him around like a prized show dog.

 

He hated the overpriced fabric kissing his skin.

 

In fact on the fifth day in Mycroft’s labyrinth of a home Greg had shredded up the outfit laid out on his bed, choosing instead to walk around in his pjs all day.

 

The following day his closet was completely devoid of clothes.

 

And he woke up naked.

 

He had to wear his bedsheets.

 

Lestrade shuddered at the memory. The werewolf recalled his Master possessed the Power of Projection and thus could spy on nearly any being he wished. Mycroft probably watched him struggle with smug satisfaction, the perverted bastard.

 

He could be watching right now.

 

Ignoring his moment of weakness with practiced ease Greg resumed his trip to the dining hall. The location was several stairways down from his room and required the opening of heavy oak doors to enter.

 

The previous dinners were also held here. All were extravagant and seemed to mock the prisoner with an uncomfortably honest jest. Delicacies rested upon a table that stretched lavishly upon flamboyant cloth. The room itself was aged wood lit by chandeliers and candles.

 

Lestrade wanted to burn it.

 

However he’d learned at the first dinner that misconduct of any sort was pointless.

 

The candles were magic and could not burn anything but themselves. The food will never spoil. Any destruction caused will automatically remend. Refusal to eat results in forced feeding by magical means.

 

Greg really doesn’t wanna be pursued by flying eclairs again.

 

As he reached for the door it opened of its own accord. Thus Lestrade looked rather silly with a hand raised to nothing.

 

Mycroft smiled like a twisted truth.

 

He no longer hid his fangs, nor his eyes which were covered by a steel sheen of magic.

 

He sat at the other end of the table like some obscure fallen god.

 

Something dark and tainted swelled up inside Letrade.

 

He took his own seat with caution worthy of unstable radium.

 

The strange thing is vampires don’t really require food in the way most creatures did, blood is enough to sustain them. In fact many loathed to eat anything at all.

 

However the feast in front of Greg proved Mycroft was the exception.

 

There were floating wine glasses and spinning plates of pastries and about a dozen different forks Lestrade couldn’t fathom the use of.

 

He picked up the biggest one and stabbed at his meal.

 

It hit the fine china with a clank.

 

The werewolf blinked, and his brow furrowed. His fork breezed through his steak as if it were non-existent, as if it were air. Greg used his fingers and that too went through his dinner like it was a hologram, an illusion.

 

Lestrade raised his gaze and saw his Master’s suspiciously neutral face.

 

Without breaking eye contact he lifted the plate, and dropped it.

 

The resulting crash was an avalanche.

 

Mycroft rested his chin upon his hands.

 

“Must you destroy all that is my property?”

 

“Fuck yeah.” The werewolf dropped his cup.

 

“Fuck this wasted money on useless shit.” He crushed the porcelain to dust beneath his overpriced shoe.

 

“And you know what? Fuck you.” He slapped a nearby candle to the floor.

 

”And fuck your weird ass mind games.”

 

Lestrade slammed the table, pushing himself to a standing position and for a brief moment the suspended plates revealed their utter emptiness. His plush chair lay on its side.

 

“If I could.” All the ridiculously dainty forks flew to the ground.

 

“I would destroy myself too.”

 

The only knife near Greg, a butter knife, discreetly floated away from the Collared’s tight words.

 

Mycroft was empty.

 

“Since you have proved yourself barbaric in the basest sense I suppose a new training regime is nesscar-”

 

“Is that what this bullshit is? You abandon me for god knows how long-”

 

“Interruption is rude Grego-”

 

“You lock me up to drown in boredom-”

 

“It is unbecoming for-”

 

“You won’t give me any bloody answers-”

 

“Manners are-”

 

“Just tell me what-”

 

**“Shut up.”**

 

The magic pushing against those syllables ringed like dog whistles.

 

Greg shut up.

 

He bunched the table cloth with trembling knuckles. For a brief second the werewolf imagined a besuited man covered in blood. A flag post in the wreckage of his own making.

 

Mycroft transcended the table and began the long journey to the other end.

 

To his pet.

 

“You are an icon, Gregory. Befuddled souls might even coin you a savior”

 

His warm voice threatened storms.

 

“The mindless masses have contented to follow you, like blind men to black light.”

 

Mycroft was unstoppable in the way fate is unstoppable.

 

“Revolution sings in their blood. They are beginning to foolishly question vampiric authority after years of blissful submission.”

 

His demeanor was a slow waltz.

 

“Peace will not last if I allow you your power my dear Gregory.”

 

He was so close.

 

“I need to make an example of you.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes were unearthly.

 

Lestrade’s eyes were righteous chaos.

 

Breaking the spell was like breaking stitches sewn into his lips but Greg managed to bear the pain and hiss out.

 

“You’ll make me a martyr.”

 

Mycroft smiled like an oncoming oblivion.

 

“No Gregory.”

 

God, he was so close.

 

“I’ll make you history.”

 

He flicked Lestrade’s forehead, a trail of thin silver magic following the gesture.

 

Greg was thrown against the wall so hard he left a cartoon imprint upon it.

 

When Mycroft lifted his face off the hardwood with cruel gentleness the werewolf felt an unquenchable rage, but only released a wasteful whimper.

 

“Please.”

 

Greg wasn’t sure what he was begging for at this point.

 

For an insane moment something disastrously _human_ flashed across Mycroft’s feature’s, but in the next moment his overused ice had regrouped itself.

 

The Collared werewolf felt unsteady and nauseous in the most unstable way. Silver magic encased him in invasive fog and Greg was reminded of fire victims.

 

It isn’t the flames that kill them, it’s the smoke.

 

Greg saw sliver nebulas floating in blank eyes.

 

The trembling werewolf shut his own, unable to match his opponent’s stare.

 

“Sherlock’s the brains. I’m just the face and you know it. I can’t help you in anyway. Let. Me. Go.”

 

Silence greeted his demand.

 

“Please.”

 

“Gregory.”

 

Mycroft cupped his hands gingerly around Lestrade’s face with the love of a cheating partner.

 

Lestrade eroded at the touch.

 

“My little pet.” The vampire’s eyes glittered. “You are absolutely ravishing when you’re petrified.”

 

Vicious fangs buried themselves into the strip of exposed skin above the werewolf’s Collar.

 

His nerves burned.

 

Horrific screams teared themselves out of Greg’s throat. They were more suited to mental asylums than chandelier lit dining halls. The panicked Collared clawed clumsily at everything within reach.

 

At his most dazed he felt the vampire’s words.

 

“You’re more valuable to me alive, love.”

 

Greg passed out in Mycroft’s arms, high on pain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh I really will try to update on time but I might have to change my planned schedule to 2 weeks instead of 1...


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Takeover but before Greg's capture. 
> 
> Entirely flashbacks about the rebellion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in so long!! (School is cancerous) To make up for that have an extra long chapter with shittons of backstory
> 
> Enjoy~

John’s neck felt exposed without his Collar, but Sherlock had insisted upon the necessity of its removal for the doctor’s own safety.

 

Refusing Sherlock was too much effort.

 

The blond huffed a wasted breath and stole a sideways glance at his companion.

 

Lestrade possessed dark moons beneath his eyes and thoughts so distant he was an echo. His steps were heavy with grave certainty. Determination appeared as battle wounds upon his visage.

 

John looked away.

 

They were travelling to the more werewolf populous part of London now, and thus they were getting shady looks. Both men ignored said probing eyes. Muggings have become daily casualties ever since the Takeover.

 

The pub was full of broke men, nearly broke men, and broken men. Also there was a bartender who looked about ready to retire for good.

 

Not the most cheery setting but it will have to do.

 

John stayed guard at the entrance as the DI climbed the bar and crushed brittle shot glasses beneath his peeling boots. Some protests began but were silenced by the realization of who they were screaming at.

 

Greg coughed.

 

“LISTEN UP YOU FUCKWADS.”

 

Two of thirty people bothered to glance up.

 

“I’m Inspector Detective Lestrade.”

 

The sudden weight of thirty eyes was a welcoming burden.

 

The sudden noise of thirty voices was an inconvenience.

 

“Oi-”

 

Yelling.

 

“Hey-”

 

Shouting.

 

“Look-”

 

Someone threw a bottle at Greg.

 

“Goddamn-”

 

He dodged again.

 

“ **SHUT. UP.** ”

 

The silence was thunderous.

 

Lestrade stood panting, half transformed, upon the table. Drunk patrons eyed him with worry, fear, confusion, and strung up hatred.

 

John was beginning to really dislike this plan.

 

However the silver headed werewolf continued, since he was a very selective brand of clever. Greg ripped off his football tee and turned his back towards his dazed audience.

 

There was a gloriously collective gasp.

 

The blond doctor grinned. Ah...at least this part worked.

 

Lestrade’s tattoo traversed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. It was what appeared to be many black squiggles but if one were to look closely you could see an unnaturally white light encasing each line. Together they formed the shape of wings.

 

Though in truth they were a blessing.

 

A very literal one.

 

Those outside of London do not know what this means, but the werewolves in the pub did. They all knew with the kind of clarity only achieved by unpredictable awakenings. They felt something pleasantly empty had been uncovered, like there was still something of themselves left over.

 

They felt hope.

 

The cheers could be heard three streets over.

 

* * *

 

 

The first rebel leader was Marilyn McClod.

 

Out of all the leaders she was arguably the most successful. If not, she was at least the most bloody.

 

During the 2 days Marilyn had reigned more than a quarter of the werewolf population had gone feral. More than half of the vampire population had been slaughtered.

 

Certain parts of the city remain permanently blood-stained.

 

It was the first time in a very long time since vampires have felt genuine fear toward werewolves. It was the first time werewolves had initiated a victorious battle.

 

It was the first time Collars became legal.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t want war.”

 

At these words complaints arose. Not that no one was complaining to begin with, it was just that the screaming had increased by a few increments or so.

 

Greg’s speech was blunt and compelling. He threw words like orders and paved unperceivable futures with bare honesty.

 

Though he was straight forward there were ever so many tedious questions from unadvisedly drunk individuals. Most were either cautiously doubtful or so fucking out of it they were willing to agree to anything.

 

God why couldn’t they have gone to a church. Church people aren’t hammered.

 

John glanced through grubby windows into blinks of light drowned in darkness. He looked down at the crumpled napkin in his hand. Sherlock had shoved the wad hurriedly into John’s fist just as he and Greg were leaving.

 

“I cannot go with you, I cannot protect you, but I can hide you.”

 

The blond unfolded his Master’s gift and smiled when realization enlightened him.

 

It was a spell.

 

A Closing spell, a spell made for deception to conceal what ever the user wished. Spells are always quite dangerous for magic welders because it was more or less an act of cutting off part of oneself and embalming it onto another object. As such spells are usually weaker than pure magic.

 

But nonetheless malicious within the wrong hands.

 

John was so entranced by Sherlock’s act of trust in him that he nearly got hit by a flying shoe.

 

“Calm down you sick fucks. I’m not finished-”

 

“Why tha fuck you doin’ this?” A woman of stout stature and grand voice stood upon a table. She faced Greg with jello legs.

 

“Wahsta copper like ya doin’ being tha new rebel leader? Huh? Huuuh??”

 

Many slurred “yeah”s and “good point”s arose from slurred drunkards.

 

“Because laws are meaningless.”

 

The bar was obscenely quiet.

 

“They’ve been meaningless ever since the bloody Takeover and we all bloody know it!”

 

The DI stamped his foot.

 

“I can’t do shit for you. The law can’t do shit for you. Hell, you can’t even do shit for yourselves. The law is dead, has been for sometime now. We’re screwed.”

 

He paused.

 

“But we’re also free.”

 

Every man and woman within that establishment felt themselves slowly sober up against their will.

 

“Wha makes ya special then?” The man who spoke was skinny and visibly sick.

 

Greg spoke with clarity unworthy of his words.

 

“I have magic on my side.”

 

* * *

 

 

The fourth leader was Janson Ronnavich.

 

He was the first to reveal his tattoo.

 

He only reigned for one day but he fought with military precision and cunning previously unheard of in the rebellion.

 

It was said that Ronnavich was at the frontlines, his shirtless back revealing his tattooed wings, and the magic from that blessing led the crusaders into the fog and into victory.

 

Well, if you call being slain victory.

 

The day after Lestrade went to Molly.

 

She didn’t deny his presence, but neither did she acknowledge it.

 

He spoke anyways.

 

“Did Marilyn have them? Did Colbent? Trevor? Wh-”

 

“Yes.” Molly wasn’t looking at him. “I gave them my blessing.”

 

Greg’s voice was strained.

 

“Why?”

 

The figetity angel continued to refuse eye contact.

 

“I was ordered to.”

 

“By whom?”

 

She didn’t reply.

 

Lestrade stared at her.

 

“Who’s next?”

 

“...”

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“.....”

 

“Why can’t you tell me?”

 

“.....”

 

“....Am I…am I on the list?”

 

Molly was mute.

 

Greg looked caged in the way only true terror can bring.

 

“...Who’s before me?”

 

“....”

 

“....Molly…”

 

“.....”

 

He inhaled.

 

“Molly...Please.”

 

The angel’s reply was barely a mumble, but werewolf hearing didn’t need more than that.

 

Greg was shaking.

 

“Do I succeed?”

 

She didn’t speak.

 

“ _Molly._ ”

 

She didn’t look at him.

 

Lestrade stepped towards her.

 

“ _Do._ ”  Step. “ _I._ ”  Step. “ _Succeed?_ ”  The angel was within grabbing distance.

 

Her silence was an unexplained punishment.

 

Greg slammed his hands against the wall, Molly in between them. He was growling, nearly snarling. He slowly cracked the drywall.

 

He was so fucking  _scared._ _  
_

Molly finally raised her eyes to Lestrade’s with infinities weighed upon her. The werewolf was acutely aware that this woman was millenniums old, that she could dissect him atom by atom.

 

Her voice was a polished knife.

 

“It doesn’t end well.”

 

Her voice could freeze the sun.

 

“It never does.”

 

“Accurate observation, Molly.”

 

The angel and werewolf looked to the door. Sherlock stood framed melodramatically by fluorescent lights.

 

Greg immediately jumped away from the brunnette while blushing illogically. Molly simply glanced at the detective with cautious fore-warning.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The man’s grin was pasted on.

 

“Molly.”

 

Sherlock turned to the overwhelmed werewolf.

 

“Even if the ending is inevitable.”

 

His eyes were refined diamonds.

 

“I will make sure the beginning is entertaining.”

 

Greg blinked, then shook his head, then shook his whole body as it was ransacked by hysterical laughter.

 

“Are….Are you…Are you offering to take my place?”

 

“No you moron.” This smile was genuine. “I’m offering to assist you.”

 

* * *

 

 

John and Lestrade walked out of the bar.

 

Strategies had been placed, meetings had been planned, actions will be taken. Though knowing how shitty their luck is, John was sure it wouldn’t be an easy path. But then again, Lestrade was famous for tearing down paths.

 

The street was lit by fallen stars and indistinct murmurs.

 

The two werewolves shouldn’t be out past curfew like this and if the Closing spell was not in their possession they would have both been kidnapped long ago.

 

John jammed his hands into his coat, it was still unfairly chilly for spring. Greg had his own tattered coat unzipped and he walked with lazy awareness.

 

The blond rubbed his thumb against his fingers.

 

He remembered how Mycroft would glance down at his phone when Sherlock wasn’t looking and smile like he had a beautiful secret. He remembered once Lestrade got so roaring drunk that he began blubbering like a love-sick teenager for the whole bar to hear.

 

He remembered seeing the two of them, not holding hands, not kissing, but just standing next to the other with the most brutally personal of silent support.

 

He remembered the day Mycroft disappeared.

 

It was long ago John supposed, but the scar left behind was not healing.

 

Greg was proof of that.

 

They were just outside 221B now, and the shorter of the two held out his arm. Lestrade stopped with childish befuddlement and glanced down at the blond werewolf. Blue eyes tore through him like a teardrop through ink.

 

“You’re not okay.”

 

Greg looked away.

 

“Don’t tell me you are. Don’t tell me you’re okay with giving up your life for the sake of the rebellion. Don’t tell me you’re going to do this.”

 

John yanked at the DI’s coat collar so the two men were more or less face to face.

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up on yourself.”

 

“...Of course not.”

 

Lestrade pulled away slowly. He meet John’s gaze this time.

 

“I’ve just put my hope elsewhere.”

 

“Where? The bloody drunkards? The ones that won’t even remember your face tomorrow?”

 

At this the silver haired werewolf smilied.

 

“Yeah, they won’t. Sherlock made sure of that.”

 

John was very very confused.

 

* * *

 

 

The DI had arrived early.

 

Sherlock paced around the flat with casual flair, his bathrobe trailing like a wedding veil. John had gone out for a quick shopping trip before he and Greg were leaving for the pub and thus the dangerous detective had been left alone.

 

The room looked worse for it.

 

There were ancient spellbooks bound in dragon leather floating midair, bumping into levitating goat hearts and spilling potions onto flying pages. A part of the floor was moving as if it were water rather than wood and tiny waves spilled like mistakes from it.

 

Greg stepped around the void and sat upon the only non-magicked object in the room; John’s chair.

 

Immediately everything fell to the floor in clumped mountains as Sherlock swung his head to Lestrade. He narrowed his eyes. A frog croaked.

 

“You don’t sit there.”

 

“Where the fuck am I supposed to sit then? You’ve turned the living room into a warzone!”

 

Sherlock tilted his head, then closed his eyes.

 

When he opened them again the room was clean, in fact cleaner than before.

 

“No I haven’t.”

 

Greg huffed at the other man’s smile and moved himself to the sofa.

 

“Alright alright I’m here. What do you want from me now?”

 

“I don’t want anything.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“...Perhaps you can give me your cooperation.”

 

Greg’s grin was a blank one.

 

“Aren’t I always patient?”

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

“You would prefer to believe as such.”

 

“Any belief can become truth with enough faith.”

 

“Ah, but that is _exactly_ what you lack and _precisely_ why I summoned you!”

 

“...Explain.”

 

Sherlock twirled and in one swoop levitated himself into a cross-legged position near Greg’s seat. His bathrobe brushed the hardwood and his fingers met each other in front of his face.

 

“All 9 previous leaders possessed similar disadvantages. Lack of organization, lack of strategy, lack of forethought, lack of success, and lack of a brilliant magical genius. Just to name a few.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes.

 

“But…” Sherlock squinted.

 

“Their most common factor is their lack of privacy.”

 

The man tilted his head. “Whether it be forgetful carelessness or naive trust no leader suspected munity and traitors. They did not take into account baser instincts and the need to achieve them and thus they did not last long. Money is something no leader can guarantee, and money is all werewolves need.”

 

Holmes scowled like a savage beast.

 

“This makes briberies stupidly easy for my stupid brother.”

 

Lestrade blinked.

 

“Yeah... I _know_ all this...why the hell are you pointing out the obvious I thought you hated th-”

 

“Because I had hoped that you would perhaps come to an understanding on your own. Evidently your brain is not functional.”

 

Greg huffed.

 

“Then stop with the mind games and get to the point.”

 

Smiles should not be so unnerving, maybe its the fangs.

 

“We need to erase your identity.”

 

“...What?”

 

* * *

 

 

Annie Cosh was unconventional.

 

She was the 7th rebel leader.

 

By then most of the rebellion consisted of those with nothing left to lose. The group’s previous glory having been tarnished by most acute failure and leftover promises not upheld.

 

Annie was a hybrid.

 

Interspecies children are something of marvel; a mix between scientific breakthrough and circus freakshow. Yet she was even more improbable than one would assume.

 

Annie was a Werewolf-Vampire hybrid.

 

During the Takeover such creatures had all mysteriously disappeared, most likely into hiding. Though a more realistic ideal is that they were all atrociously murdered by both werewolves and vampires alike.

 

But Annie Cosh survived.

 

And her followers all revered, feared, and loathed her for it.

 

Cosh was a self-proclaimed saviour, of what she did not say. But her words were inviting and her open arms the closest to safe anyone could remember in a very long time. She possessed a charm so magnetic it was as if she were a black hole, unrelenting, destructive, and beautiful.

 

She didn’t seem _real._

 

In fact Annie’s original intent was to not to attack the vampires but to befriend them.

 

She planned to march in with her makeshift army of gangly misfits like some fairy tale hero and propose a peace treaty that would, somehow, get accepted. She envisioned a new utopia of uncontaminated happiness and entrancing innocence with her as their benevolent God.

 

She was 40 minutes into her speech before she was shot in the chest with an iron bullet.

 

Annie’s smile did not flatter, she did not die.

 

“Do not fear, the angels protect me.”

 

The second bullet, a silver one, went through her forehead. She did not live.

 

Annie’s reign lasted 71 minutes.

 

The next day Molly Hooper went missing.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg was regretting his decisions.

 

Sherlock said the potion would make him feel funny but Lestrade felt more than that.

 

He felt strangled.

 

All his movements were limited by unseen pressure from unseen water. His head pounded to an erratic heartbeat not his own. He was choking on his tongue.

 

The werewolf was drowning.

 

When he surfaced again Sherlock had just slapped him. Really fucking hard. So fucking hard that for days afterwards Greg’s left cheek will throb like a migraine times twenty.

 

The DI was just about to yell his head off at the other man when he joltingly registered Sherlock’s face. His dark circles were craters even deeper than Greg’s and his eyes looked drained, the previous light missing as if it never existed to begin with.

 

If the detective wasn’t a vampire, Lestrade would have said he was dying.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock’s grin resembled that of Icarus, right before he fell.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did...did you just cast a spell on me?!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this wasn't too confusing! If you have any questions about this story feel free to ask in the comments and I'll try my best to respond yep yep


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of dinner, Greg wakes up.
> 
> We're back in present time again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has NOT been abandoned, I just needed some time to write.

When he was twelve years of age Greg went to a public education center about seventeen kilometers away from home.

 

It was a rural area full of wild children that skated on fragile ice in the winter and splashed in overly chilling rivers when mock-summer arrived. A place wherein a bus passed only every hour or so. A godless place. 

 

Thus one needed to get up early if they were to arrive on time for school. His mother would wake him by yanking off his fortress of blankets and allowing sunlight to _burn his fucking eyeballs._

 

Molly was so much crueler than that.

 

Currently the ruffled werewolf was tangled in bedsheets upon the floor. He was squished in the space between the bed and the wall in a position that reminded him of his one night stand with this really kinky contortionist.

 

The perpetrator, an angel in a lab coat, stood on the bed with no remorse at all about kicking Lestrade off of it.

 

“-stupid can you be? How the bloody _hell_ am I supposed to convince Mycroft you shouldn’t be Muzzled and Chained if you act like some rabid dog?! What happened to all the vampire etiquette I taught you? Do you even-”

 

Greg’s drawn-out groan interrupted Molly’s rant. She paused for a moment, as if supposing that berating the werewolf had finally gotten through to him. But then she Read his thoughts and let out a frustrated, bordering on rageful, sigh.

 

“No Greg you didn’t sprain your penis. Are you even paying attention to me? How are you supposed to meet the others in your state?”

 

A muffled “Bwah?” escaped from the mess of cloth and limbs.

 

“The other Masters? At the dinner party? That’s happening _this Friday_.”

 

A grey bedhead popped up from twisted fabrics.

 

“What day is today?”

 

“It’s Thursday you dunce.”

 

Molly sat crosslegged upon Lestrade’s former sleeping location, watching the werewolf struggle in his blankets. Her shoulders slumped.

 

“You are so screwed.”

 

“You are so helpful.”

 

Hooper sighed angrily once more.

 

“I _am_ helpful! I explained all of this the first day you were here and-”

 

“I was way too fucking shell shocked to listen.”

 

“...Well that’s your own fault, isn’t it?”

 

Greg groaned and flopped backwards, having given up on his escape from the bedsheets.

 

The two paused in conversation. A silence neither awkward nor comfortable filling up the momentary emptiness. Lestrade closed his eyes.

 

“...What did he do to me?”

 

“It’s what some call a Claim.” Molly looked beyond unsettled as the werewolf stretched his neck and attempted to massage the skin wherein two deep, and deeply gross, scars now resided. “It’s said to be painful.”

 

“That’s the understatement of the century.”

 

The angel conjured up a bottle of soothing lotion and passed it to Greg who mumbled a lazy thanks.

 

“The purpose of a Claim is to show ownership, power, and dominance.” Hooper scooted around upon the bed and leaned her back against the headboard. “It’s like a big ‘don’t touch my stuff’ sign so the other vamps don’t mess you up.”

 

Greg sighed as he rubbed in the lotion. “Coulda at least given me some kinda explanation before chopping down.”

 

“Mycroft deemed it a fit punishment since you were rather rude-”

 

“Furious.” Lestrade glared up at the ceiling. “I was furious. Still am. I have every fucking right to be.” He changed his gaze, aimed it towards the angel on his bed. “Don’t try to convince me otherwise.”

 

Molly only looked sad.

 

She could not meet the Collared’s eyes. Her whisper was a rumpled paper note passed in the middle of class.

 

“...Why did you do it?”

 

The werewolf huffed. He looked away, frustrated with an immeasurable intensity. He looked constipated. “I just want him to remember...that I exist. That the me he knows isn’t the person I am.” Greg fiddled with the bedazzled “M” on his Collar.

 

“That I deserve explanations.”

 

Hooper tilted her head, contemplative. “That is a dangerous ideal to carry, for both yourself and for Mycroft.” Molly’s smile was tiny, yet existent. “...But I suppose it is the righteous one.”

 

Lestrade only grunted in response and winced again as the gouges in his neck unleashed a stab of pain down his body. Imagine getting shocked numerous times. Now imagine that with each shock you die a little. The marks on Greg’s neck have already killed him.

 

He traced the holes and felt squishy rot.

 

“So will this thing really stop other soulless creeps from touching me?”

 

“Well that’s the idea. But” The angel tapped her chin. “Since technically a threat against a vampire’s possession is a threat against the vampire themselves, if say one of Mycroft’s _enemies_ wanted to _overthrow him..._ ” She pointed at the werewolf. "Then they would probably attack you first, since you’re an easier target.”

 

“Gee thanks.”

 

“Welcome. Oh!” The angel smiled wider than necessary. “And keep in mind that _everyone_ is Mycroft’s enemy.”

 

Lestrade moaned. “Why is vampire etiquette so. Fucking. Complicated?”

 

He punctuated each pause by slamming his head into the blankets.

 

Molly snorted. “‘Cause they’re posh bastards.” She quirked an eyebrow. “And now you’re part of their world.”

 

“I’m way over my head.”

 

“That’s alright.” Hooper’s smile was a slant of lips. A tease.

 

“I’m here to help.”

 

And she did.

 

* * *

 

In another part of the city, but closer than one might expect, John Watson yawned.

 

“How’s division 12944 holding up?”

 

“Terrible. Incompetent. Horrible menaces to society and all that which-”

 

“Julia made fun of your coat again didn’t she.”

 

Sherlock, laying hazardly on the sofa, only snorted in reply. “The girl has no appreciation for fine clothing.”

 

John rolled his eyes, smile tired but bright. It was like witnessing a nuclear explosion through fogged glass. “Well if you’re wearing designer stuff in the middle of a war people are going to ask questions Sherlock. It's just a given.” The werewolf yawned again as his flatmate spluttered melodramatically.

 

“Nonetheless that is no reason for her to insult my state of dress!”

 

“Ah lighten up, she’s just having fun.” John stretched his shoulders. His mud stained sweater rode up, revealing a sliver of skin and it took most of Sherlock’s willpower to not flick his eyes down and stare at it.

 

“Besides,” John shuffled into the kitchen. “Julia is only ten.”

 

The vampire huffed and turned away. He re-immersed himself in plans and strategies for the continued fight tomorrow as John made tea. He’s made it every night since his first day as the new rebel leader and he finds it keeps him sane.

 

Being a leader, a commander, a guide to follow, a person with an army behind them...John never expected he would hold such a high honour again.

 

The doctor rubbed his shoulder, tracing scars absently as he waited for the kettle. He hadn’t thought he, of all people, would be on the list. But a pair of tattooed wings had appeared on John’s back the day Greg was captured.

 

And they insisted otherwise.

 

Watson bustled around the kitchen, gathering cups and sugars and milk. The werewolf also had not anticipated how welcoming the rebel group was. They accepted the change in leadership without a word nor a fuss and their spirits still ran high. John couldn’t figure out if they actually trusted him due to his association with Lestrade, or if they were all just stricken by desperation.

 

Probably both.

 

The doctor sighed. He grabbed the two steaming mugs and returned to the living room.

 

Sherlock still remained encased in notions and schemes. John placed the detective’s cup at his elbow, on the coffee table.

 

The werewolf would normally turn on the telly right about now. If the Takeover hadn’t occurred he would have just finished a shift at Barts, helped Sherlock out with a case, updated his blog, and watched trash telly.

 

Instead he just escaped from an ongoing war to a Sherlock completely consumed by it and a television full of graphic live news shows.

 

He picked up a book instead.

 

* * *

 

Molly’s lesson was lengthy and overly-detailed. Photographic memory is something all celestial beings are blessed with. Though the gift is not truly a treasure at all.

 

Living a life for millenniums upon millenniums while being forced to remember the entirety of it...that’s not a fun experience. It’s a constant strain upon the psyche. There is a feeling of disconnect, of emotions that do not coordinate and memories that pulse with empty heartbeats.

 

It’s like diving in the ocean while you’re unable to swim _and_ unable to drown.

 

Greg had once asked about it, curious about the near immortality granted to the angel and the clear memories she must possess.

 

Molly had shut down.

 

It was several hours and panicked ramblings into phones before she reawoke in St. Barts surrounded on both sides by a devastated John and a near bawling Lestrade. Her first words were:

 

“Did I fall down the stairs again?”

 

From thereon there was an unspoken agreement to never bring the topic back up.

 

But since Molly couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of her recollection abilities she splurged way too much information regarding proper Master-Collared behaviour. At most the werewolf will remember 34.87% of it.

 

But one thing was clear:

 

He needed to get along with Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

John maneuvered from the kitchen to the living room. In his hands were plates of leftovers. He nudged Sherlock with his foot.

 

“Oi, grub is here.”

 

The vampire blinked in succession several times and then sat up. He rolled his shoulders while John shucked off his dirty shirts and faced his tattooed back towards his Master. The werewolf  picked up a plate and fork. Sherlock reached a slender hand towards the ink wings. He rested light fingertips in between Watson’s shoulder blades.

 

He hummed in a strange melodic language under his breath and the tattoo faintly glowed.

 

This procedure had become natural for the two of them now. Ever since his first day as rebel leader John had asked (read “demanded”) Sherlock to cast the same spell on him as he had on Lestrade. The vampire had no choice but to agree.

 

It was the logical option after all.

 

The spell was a very specialized one that Sherlock had invented just for the occasion. It rendered the wearer’s identity meaningless to those who did not know him before the spell was cast. Which might seem silly considering the strain of casting such a massive spell.

 

Until you consider the possibilities.

 

If there was a snitch in the rebellion and they attempted to report details of the leader’s name and appearance to the enemy…they wouldn’t be able to. The magic forces them to forget any information of value concerning the individual the spell was casted on. However when they are in that person’s presence again they will remember everything once more.

 

The best thing is the mole, whoever they may be, can’t even reveal their confusion because in asking such a suspicious question they would attract unwanted attention to their true intentions.

 

It’s really ingenious magic.

 

(Sherlock reminds John of this at every given opportunity.)

 

The only down side to such a spell, one that particularly infuriates the vampire, is the fact that it is not permanent. Or rather, its hard to maintain if used. Thus everyday Sherlock makes sure to strengthen the magic by recasting the spell.

 

(Thankfully he just needs to simply recast or else John would be forced to down that wretched potion again.)

 

This process has become a routine for both of them. Sherlock magicks, and John eats. And when the vampire is finished, he will join the werewolf in dinner. They have a lovely conversation thats far too cheery for a time of war. And then they go to bed.

 

However this time it was different. A divergence in the plan.

 

Sherlock never likes those.

 

He could feel it in John. A faster heartbeat. The way the other man tensed just a bit as he was touched. He chewed slowly, as if weighing the consequences of his next words.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

John turned around to face his flatmate, setting down his meal.

 

“...When are you going to tell me?”

 

Holmes looked the spitting image of innocent befuddlement.

 

(Which meant he was lying his ass off.)

 

The vampire’s brows furrowed and he wrinkled his nose.

 

“What?”

 

The doctor huffed. His annoyance would fall into anger if he was not careful. John loathed when Sherlock played dumb, it made the process of honesty that much more painful.

 

“Is the truth really too hard to say?” John’s voice contained the hint of a growl.

 

Sherlock’s voice remained a performance.

 

“John I have no idea what you’re talking about. Which is an unpleasant feeling at best but is currently an unarguably intolerable oppression of-”

 

The werewolf gripped the other creature’s hands in his own and looked down with a concentrated intensity at the digits. Holmes swallowed.

 

“Its okay if you’re uncomfortable Sherlock, but…” He sighed. “...but I know something’s not right with you.”

 

His Master stilled. All pretense of trickery gone.

 

John plowed on.

 

“You don’t drink nearly as much blood as you should. You should be drinking 3 times a day not 3 times a week and you opt to frequently choose food over what should be your most important sustenance.” John gestured to the plates of leftovers and Sherlock grimaced.

 

“You have been abusing your magic for years yet you suffer no symptoms of deprivation and fatigue from overuse. And even I can tell that all of your spells are dangerously energy consuming and yet…”

 

The werewolf looked up into his friend’s eyes. Neither expressing nearly enough.

 

“...and yet you haven’t died.”

 

John’s smile was tight.

 

“There’s no vampires like you Sherlock.”

 

“I’ve always been unique.” He did not sound convinced of his own lies.

 

John shook his head.

 

“Not unique enough to escape death.”

 

At this a smirk seemed to flicker across the other man’s face, but as quickly as it had come, it disappeared. And once again he was achingly neutral.

 

John clicked his tongue as he shook his head.

 

“Look Sherlock, I don’t know what you are hiding or why you won’t tell me but…” He sucked in a breath. “I trust you to tell me when I really need to know. I…” He bit his lip.

 

The silence between them was a considering one, a time for decisions to be engraved.

 

Sherlock’s voice was too soft.

 

“I’m sorry John.”

 

The werewolf smiled like Chernobyl.

 

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

“Mycroft is going to be here later this afternoon. You should talk to him if you two are going to put together a believable show.”

 

Hooper shuffled around on the bed, lesson over, and the werewolf as prepared as he could be.

 

“Wait, Molly.”

 

The angel turned around. Greg fidgeted.

 

“Could...could you check on John and Sherlock for me? Please?”

 

Molly was also a Projector in the same way Mycroft is. However her Powers were much weaker and she required the utmost concentration to activate them.

 

Thus normally someone of her skill level would not be able to break the Closing spell Sherlock has activated on 221B. However the detective made sure that the spell would recognize Molly’s magical signature so if anything were to occur (not that it should but if it were to) then the angel could assist them.

 

But Molly mostly used this to eavesdrop.

 

She smiled, cocked her head to the side, and listened.

 

A long pause.

 

“I think Sherlock is realizing once again...” The angel chuckled. “...That John is smarter than he looks.”

 

She jumped off the bed with careless energy. The ominous sentence left in her wake.

 

Lestrade was tempted to question her vague statement further but there was always the chance that Mycroft was also listening in. The vampire had the ability to Project onto several different locations all at once on a consistent basis.

 

It’s reckless to reveal information on enemy territory.

 

Molly stopped at the door. She did not turn around. Her voice was a despondent mixture of calm and anxiety.

 

“There’s still a lot you don’t know Greg and--”

 

The angel tensed, relaxed, then sighed.

 

“...and get some sleep tonight.”

 

As she slipped down the hallway and outta sight the werewolf heard her sing “You’ll need it!~”

 

(As usual, she was right.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha long time no post readers but I'm writing I swear! There's a whole lotta plot and details to hammer out though even if I already know the ending so I'm gonna be pretty spread out with posting.
> 
> However I can tell you that the next chapter is probably gonna be my longest one yet and is halfway finished whoop!
> 
> Hoping to post in the next couple weeks or so.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New character! All flashbacks! Time points noted on each section!
> 
> (WARNING: Dubious Morality and implicit dubious consent)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally bringing in one of my OTPs: Mormor

It is six years before the Takeover.

 

It has been three days since his return to London.

 

And it was apparent that everything had gone to shit.

 

Sebastian Moran lit a fag with shaky fingers and breathed in the wolfsbane laced nicotine. High on adrenaline and victory. The air was filled with laborious smoke and for a moment one could almost ignore the decomposing corpse upon the floor of the alley.

 

Almost.

 

The dead werewolf was a middle aged alcoholic who was much drunker than any person had any right to be. The winner was obviously not him.

 

The fight was over a sandwich.

 

Which honestly isn’t all that much of an issue for Moran. Motive and principal are hardly relevant when it comes to unapologetically senseless violence. No. Sebastian had no moral codes to break. The real issue is that-

 

-the sandwich got stomped on.

 

Thus rendering the whole spectacle pointless and yet another circumstance wherein a dead body has been placed in the Colonel’s hands. Well, ex-Colonel now he guesses.

 

The still living werewolf got down on one knee and sniffed long and deeply, almost brushing the skin of his kill.

 

He could just leave the body in the alleyway and wait for some dumbass to pass by and report it to the police for removal, but Moran’s fingerprints and blood were all over the other man with no easy way for cleansing without arousing suspicion. The details of the ex-Colonel’s “honourable discharge” were already shady enough.

 

This murder would not only erase his dignity, but also his life.

 

Sebastian tilted his head slightly. His face showed boredom, as if he had not just broken another creature with his bare hands. There were very few options left to him and as previously mentioned, the werewolf had no conscience.

 

At least not in the way that mattered.

 

He smiled like an omen, like a warning unheard.

 

Then he dug in.

 

When Moran became aware of the approaching footsteps he had already cracked open the dead man’s rib cage and salvaged what was edible. The liver and lungs were useless, blackened by wolfsbane laced drugs. But the heart remained miraculously intact and the ex-Colonel cradled it in both hands.

 

He held it to his face and took another bite with an overly graphic “ _squelch_ ”.

 

Being caught in this state, literally red-handed, would be difficult to explain. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through enough. Maybe he had a little too much to drink.

 

“Why aren’t you just _adorable_.”

 

The footsteps stopped. The besuited man who stood over the werewolf resembled very little of a man, something unsettlingly nocturnal in his wide eyes.

 

Stoically wary, Sebastian slowly transferred himself into a standing position. He began to light another fag as the other creature rambled.

 

“My, my, poppet this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” His voice was sing-song in the most grating fashion. “Naughty naughty boy.” He wore a grin that didn’t quite fit his face and never reached his eyes.

 

Sebastian tilted himself towards the intruder, blood dripping down his chin, and blew a perfectly diabolical ring of smoke at the mocking bastard.

 

“Piss off shitstain.”

 

The creepy ass motherfucker didn’t even blink as the cloud obscured his face.

 

He giggled.

 

“Ah!~ Defiance looks _so_ good on you.”

 

A surprisingly strong hand caged the werewolf’s chin.

 

“But submission would look better.”

 

Sebastian slammed against the scraped wall of the alley way, gasping for breath, shocked beyond belief. The not-man smirked like a monster who lived under beds.

 

Yet despite possessing common sense, Moran still spat in the other’s face.

 

He became a tad more unnerved when the douchebag stared on.

 

“You’re a feisty one aren’t you?”

 

Saliva and spit oozed down his captor’s visage and the werewolf realized that this was the intended view. That this creature belonged in gore, reveled in it.

 

And quite possibly was born from it.

 

Sebastian struggled to breathe. The hand compressing his neck was unwavering and his feet somehow dangled over the ground even though the intruder was several decimeters shorter.

 

He should have been petrified. He should have begged for whatever mercy existed within the false casing of whatever the fuck this guy was.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead Moran got as close as he could to the still grinning manic and whispered with a voice so low it should really be reserved for the bedroom.

 

“Go...eat...shit.”

 

Something twinkled in the stranger’s eyes, the abysses tantalizingly tempting in their promises of both pleasure and pain.

 

“Oh you’re going to be _f-u-n_.”

 

Sebastian saw the freak’s eyes completely black out. He saw misty tendrils of corrosive darkness reach towards him.

 

Then he saw nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

The next few months will merge into blurry years wherein Moran’s only form of stability is Moriarty. He was essentially completely dependant upon the fallen angel. Though truth be told Sebastian couldn’t really describe what it’s like to be a demon’s pet, other than the fact there is a whole lotta dead stuff.

 

And blood. So much fucking blood.

 

However some memories have imprinted on him for unknown reasons.

 

He recalls filthy sex in filthy places. He remembers the taste of salt and gunpowder upon his lips (a taste so utterly Moriarty). He can still recite the names given to him, lists upon lists of victims. He carries his dog tags upon a chain necklace that’s been broken and repaired  too many times. He treasures his moments of clarity.

 

Untainted memories are far and few, but he clings to them like the dying cling to hope.

 

He finds rare time to himself.

 

And he remembers.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian has only been in Moriarty’s possession for three months and he’s already forming scars.

 

They criss cross and snake across his body in sinful locations, marking him as property. Even covered they sting and even time does not relieve the grouges. They are a reminder and a punishment and a blessing and a promise.

 

Moran grits his teeth as Jim carves a new one.

 

The son of a bitch is humming, _bloody humming_ , as he traces the werewolf’s skin with a dainty silver butterfly knife. His hands gently cruel and so unfairly steady.

 

Crimson spills over them and the demon leans into this new toy’s ear, voice colder than even the most distant of galaxies.

 

“One day you will behave Tiger.”

 

He plunged the knife deeper, relishing the sounds Sebastian expelled.

 

“I have faith in you.”

 

* * *

 

It is 5 years after his capture, 1 year before the Takeover, and Sebastian's blowing off heads as per protocol. His hands are unwavering as Moriarty laughs beside him, giddy on violence and suffering.

 

The sound soaks in his mind for days to come.

 

* * *

 

It has been a year since his capture and Sebastian is down on his knees.

 

James stands above him, clothed in Amari and eyes as dead as drowned children. His hair slick. His smile wide. He is the spitting image of controlled psychopathy.

 

(He’s a hell of an actor.)

 

Moran trembles and nothing is existent, nothing could possibly matter except for Jim.  

 

The werewolf’s lips spit red and the demon cradles his face. His touch is as pure as romanticized diamond, but his intentions run dark and deep.

 

They kiss and it is less of a kiss than it is a one sided victory.

 

Moran doesn't whimper as Moriarty pulls him closer.

 

* * *

 

The bastard isn’t evil.

 

Sebastian should know, he’s lived in the demon’s presence long enough to be the only qualified creature to ever make such an absurd statement.

 

He needs to emphasise that Moriarty isn’t evil.

 

In order to deem right from wrong one must first be able to create such a comparison. And in order for this comparison to exist both attributes must be identifiable. You cannot not lack one or the other if you are to be categorized into social structures of morality and judgement.

 

There must be a duality.

 

James possesses none.

 

The suggestion of such things infer a sort of humanity demons are incapable of.

 

He is not good. He lacks that.

 

He is not evil. He lacks that too.

 

Moriarty is simply a creature of nothingness, a nebula of endless and undeniable continuum.

 

Where a star should reside there is only a black hole.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly Hooper is annoying.

 

It is 4 years, 34 days, 7 hours, and 21 minutes before the Takeover will occur. Moriarty is counting down every impatient second but Sebastian doesn’t even know what the event will entail, that it even will happen.

 

He only thinks Hooper is annoying.

 

The sniper sat at a cluster of picnic tables about 20 meters away from where the girl and his boss were publicly displaying affection. He was supposed to be pretending to read the paper while simultaneously spying on the couple, as per Jim’s orders. And with his werewolf enhanced abilities he could hear how dreadfully _smitten_ the chick was.

 

Moriarty is nothing short of the perfect charmer, an experienced emotional manipulator.

 

Molly’s heart was no match for him.

 

The demon said all the right things and kissed at all the right moments and, according to the frequent bursts of giggles, Hooper was probably blushing beet red right now.

 

She would have been adorable if she wasn’t so fucking irritating.

 

“So um Jim…” The girl pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “...I was wondering if you’re free Satu-”

 

“Ah sorry darling I gotta take this.”

 

Moriarty pulled out a ringing cellphone as Molly stuttered “Oh it’s fine I uh totally get it um.”

 

There was a long pause before the demon smiled again, startling the fidgety blond.

 

“I’m terribly sorry love but you know how work gets I-”

 

“Oh y-yeah it’s fine so when-”

 

He kissed her hand. She shut up and blushed like a polluted sunset. James looked up and winked.

 

“We’ll meet again soon sweetheart.”

 

The girl radiated happiness. Her voice was weak with delight.

 

“Okay.”

 

Her smile didn't fade as she watched the man leave.

 

At the same time Sebastian received a text message from his boss:

 

_Don’t let her out of your sight._

_-JM_

 

The werewolf snorted and sipped at the cold coffee he had bought from a cafe near the park, not really giving two shits. Moriarty had sent him the same order the previous 8 dates and all the poor dumb bitch did was stare awe-struck at James before blundering around and-

 

“Hello.”

 

Moran blinked at Molly who now sat across from him on the other side of the picnic table. Her smile was an amused one and Sebastian was glad of the sunglasses he wore which thankfully hid his shock.

 

“I’m sorry but who-”

 

“Don’t be silly ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran.” Molly’s voice dripped with mocking naivety. “Surely you’d remember my name after spying on me for so long.”

 

The sniper worked his jaw, uncertain how to proceed.

 

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widened. “He...he hasn’t explained anything at all...has he?...”

 

She rested her chin in her hands.

 

“Huh.”

 

The werewolf crumpled the newspaper in his fist, acutely aware that he appeared to be encased in a Closing spell set up by Hooper who was definitely magical and thus definitely not a werewolf.

 

In mere seconds she had invalidated everything Sebastian knew about her.

 

“I’d have thought that as the right-hand man of _James bloody Moriarty_ you would at least know why he’s so intent on tricking me into loving him.”

 

Molly Hooper sighed an exaggerated sigh.

 

“Alas his heart belongs not to me.”

 

She stared pointedly at Moran, and he growled at the accusation.

 

Molly only laughed.

 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry. That was below the belt. _And_ I still haven’t introduced myself! How rude.”

 

She gave her hand to shake, her smile an unsettlingly sweet brand of kindness.

 

“Molly Hooper, oldest angel in London. At your service!”

 

Sebastian's sunglasses slipped off his face.

 

They landed with a clatter on top of the wooden table, revealing the werewolf’s disbelieving eyes and raised brows. His mouth slightly ajar. Moran oogled the girl for a moment before crushing her hand in both of his and speaking in a voice raspy with desperation.

 

“ _Help me._ ”

 

The angel smirked like a demon.

 

“I will.”

 

And she did.

 

* * *

 

 

It is 3 years and 2 months since Sebastian Moran’s capture.

 

He stands at the intersection of two roads not built to be highways but so irreversibly crowded with speeding cars they might as well be. Noise pollutes the air. Dust covers his face. A rifle hides in his duffle bag.

 

And a girl sits against the wall.

 

She was selling flowers.

 

Pathetic and limp ones, dried from the unsanitary air and weak from their prolonged exposure to unsafe toxins. They were faded dabs of colour lying on yellowing cloth.

 

The kid couldn’t have been older than seven.

 

The sniper shouldn’t be here.

 

He should be in the building across from here, getting the mob boss of the Nanchang district in his scope. Shoot the man when he inevitably attempts to kill Moriarty, and shoot all his henchmen when they try too.

 

He shouldn’t be at this chaotic crossway staring impolitely at a seven year old child.

 

The girl didn’t seem to mind though. She sat in her spot expectantly waiting for the white, and thus rich, tourist to pity her and spare some change. Tiny fingers lifted a drooping white vanilla flower towards the strange man clothed in dark fabrics.

 

Sebastian held it like cherished nostalgia.

 

A tin bowl jostled and the girl raised thick eyebrows. The assassin took out his wallet.

 

And dropped 5 one hundred dollar bills.

 

Before the beggar child could react he also dropped a fully loaded peashooter at her feet.

 

He crossed the intersection as the light turned green.

 

* * *

 

An hour and twenty three minutes later James will inquire about the degenerating flower tucked into an inconspicuous part of Moran’s Kevlar vest. The werewolf, unable to lie to the demon, will admit the truth.

 

And the flower will be crushed under designer shoes.

 

* * *

 

It is twenty minutes after Molly’s departure, ten minutes since they arrived back home, and 5 minutes since Sebastian first stabbed Moriarty.

 

The demon was nailed to the walls by his hands. Impaled by two platinum daggers Hooper had slipped into Moran’s coat just before she left with a grin too sinister to be angelic. The werewolf imitated that expression now as he watched his boss hang a few centimeters above the floor like some derogatory replica of crucifiction.

 

James wasn’t smiling.

 

He glared with blacked out eyes and a scowl too inhuman to be comfortable. It stretched his face like a funhouse mirror.

 

“Kitten…”

 

Sebastian backed away from the demon, something manically unbridled in his excitement. His left hand caked in Moriarty’s blood. He began drawing in the empty space between two picture frames.

 

“....How much did she tell you?”

 

Moran’s grin was a misfired projectile. His whisper an earthquake.

 

“ _Everything_.”

 

And, with the symbol complete, the werewolf pressed his hand against it.

 

He fell through the wall.

 

* * *

 

The origins of celestials vary from culture to culture.

 

And although the term “fallen angels” is frequently applied to demons there is no actual proof they arose from such a thing. There is even less proof to their existence.

 

“Which is pure laziness you know.” Moriarty toyed with the tip of a butcher knife. “Don’t you mortals possess any curiosity? Any sense of adventure?” He cut his thumb, a droplet of blood pooling.

 

“How dull can you get?”

 

It is 4 years after Moran’s capture, 2 years before the Takeover, and the demon is terribly fed up with the mundanity of humanity.

 

He’s heard of repeatedly whispered rumours that celestials aren’t born, but created. The theory implies that any creature once they “surpass their nature” is granted the gift of prolongevity and thus is recreated into an angel or demon.

 

“A truly romanticized notion I tell you.” James licked the dollop of blood away. “Mortals are so desperate to experience immortality it’s almost hilarious-” Jim jabbed the butcher knife into the cream white sofa. “-if it weren’t so pathetic.”

 

He scowled like an unfought war.

 

“Let me tell you the truth Tiger.”

 

Moriarty leaned against the back of the couch, draping his arms over it.

 

“I was an Irish god many years before the idea of civilization existed. Thousands of years before the categorization of demons and angels will be invented. The village that I feasted upon sent me gifts every year to quell my anger.” He sighed dreamily. “They were such lovely virgins Sebby. Their flesh was so delicious.”

 

The demon closed his eyes.

 

“And I was so so _happy_.”

 

Jim opened them again, revealing soulless orbs of night.

 

“Isn’t that a lovely fairy tale, poppet?”

 

From between Moriarty's legs, Sebastian swallowed.

 

The demon brushed his hair.

 

“Good boy.”

 

* * *

 

It has been 37 minutes since his escape.

 

And Moran sat in a police station.

 

A mere 4 minutes after Sebastian ran away from Moriarty’s palace via a magical symbol Molly had taught him, the werewolf heard the most jarring of shrieking erupt from the mouth of a mother holding a babe. The commotion caused others to also stare his way.

 

Moran realized his hand still dripped blood.

 

The resulting pandemonium was supremely undignified and now the sniper sat dazed in a spotless interrogation room. He huffed indignantly, mumbling under his breath.

 

“A bloody hour hasn’t even gone by yet god fucking damn it you done fucked up Sebastian you piece of stinking-”

 

The door to the room opened and an old geezer walked in.

 

Okay so the bloke wasn’t really that ancient but the greying hair could throw anyone off. Sebastian tilted his head. He guessed that the guy was around the same age as him, maybe 5 years older.

 

He looked tired.

 

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

“....”

 

“Not chatty huh?”

 

The DI sat across from the blond werewolf, body language purposely posed to be friendly.

 

“Look, this is a pretty strange situation we got going on here, but it can all be solved if you just tell us what happened and who you are.”

 

“....”

 

Lestrade sighed. A hand ran through his pepper and salt locks.

 

“We tested the blood on you but got no match. We searched your ID, all fake names. Your face doesn’t even exist in our system. All of which, in a highly surveillanced place like London, is near impossible. Care to explain?”

 

“.....”

 

Greg looked ready to give up and move on to other things. The only reason he was handling this personally was because this werewolf was suspected of murder. But if he won’t talk and the blood doesn’t belong to anyone they can’t hold him. Especially since he appears to be a war veteran judging by the confiscated dog tags that were too battered to decipher.

 

One of the rookies should be taking this one.

 

The DI started to get up, but then he saw something on the younger werewolf’s wrists.

 

A ring of pursed and scarred skin curling like a bracelet.

 

He reached over and hovered tentative fingers over the area, looking up at the other man with raised brows.

 

_May I?_

 

Sebastian's own brows wrinkled in confusion, but then he realized the old bloke’s intent and hesitated for a long moment, then nodded sluggishly.

 

_Fine._

 

Lestrade’s smile was the most comforting one at his disposal. He held Moran’s right wrist in both hands, inspecting the damage.

 

He had seen these scars before.

 

Rumours were going around that some vampiric sickos were kidnapping werewolves and holding them captive for no reason beyond entertainment. It was a disgusting notion and the basest of cruelty. But sadly it was true. The werewolf trafficking industry boomed on the black market and Greg felt a tight hold in his chest whilst looking at the other man’s scars.

 

They were made from silver handcuffs.

 

They had to be. Werewolves usually healed quickly and efficiently enough that scarring called for very drastic measures such as repeated attempts or, in this case, silver. The pain must be tremendous.

 

The DI glanced upwards and visually investigated Sebastian's body. A knife cut on his forearm. A brace mark on his neck. A harsher cut that ran from the right bicep to somewhere underneath the blond’s tank top. Several needle tracks. And a scar along his left cheek, small but deep.

 

There was probably many more under his clothes.

 

Throughout this procedure the sniper remained mute. The only indication of any response were his clenched fists. He stared back at Greg and the DI could not fathom, even with all his training and past experience, what to say to a victim so brutally tortured.

 

He wondered if the man killed his captor.

 

The door smashed open.

 

“Sir! We need you in the other room. Right now.” Sally was a raging hellfire as she hissed. “That junkie vamp is a complete twat.”

 

Lestrade turned around to face Donovan. This was urgent. Lestrade looked back at the doll-like werewolf. This was urgent too.

 

“Sir!”

 

Greg sighed and spoke softly to the sniper.

 

“Everything’s going to be okay I will be ri-”

 

Moran lashed out and clung to the DI’s sleeve, eyes livid. The handcuffs clanged. Lestrade raised his other hand to stop Sally from tasering the werewolf.

 

“...I can smell him.”

 

The voice was a rasp. Skittish and uncertain.

 

“The one in the other room...the junkie…” Sebastian bit his lip. “I have met his kind before.” The blond desperately tried to convey the hidden riddle behind his words using his eyes alone.

 

Greg frowned. He began to gently pry away Moran’s fingers.

 

“...I get it.”

 

He spoke to a wounded animal.

 

“You must be bloody terrified of vampires by now, no one blames you for that.”

 

The sniper blinked.

 

_What the flying fuck does vampires have to do with this?!_

 

“But it’s going to be okay.” Lestrade smiled too warmly. “I will be right back and in the mean time one of my trusted colleagues like Sally here-” The girl snorted. “-will take care of you and-”

 

Sebastian shot up from his seat, towering over both Donovan and Greg. The DI raised his hand again to stop his co-worker from harming the suddenly angry blond.

 

“Release me.”

 

Sally beat Lestrade to the answer.

 

“Fuck no. You just got dropped off here with a bucketful of blood stained into your skin. Like hell we’re going to let you go.”

 

Moran stared her down. To give her some credit the woman barely flinched.

 

“You have no proof that blood belonged to a person. No proof I did anything wrong. You can’t hold me.”

 

Sally glared. The sniper retaliated.

 

“Let him go.”

 

“What?!”

 

Donovan directed her gaze to her boss and thus didn’t see Sebastian smirk.

 

Lestrade began walking out the door.

 

“He’s right. We can’t hold him. He doesn’t want to be here. We got better things to do.”

 

Sally huffed but did not retort.

 

Greg passed by her.

 

“So who’s the junkie?”

 

“Some kid named Sherlock Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

It has been 5 years and 7 months since Sebastian became Moriarty’s.

 

And he could not remember ever feeling so content.

 

The werewolf sat on his knees between his boss’s pant legs, one cheek resting upon Jim’s thigh. He was naked, but James wasn’t. Things usually worked out like that. The sniper’s eyes were hooded with a dangerous vulnerability. His face flushed. His lips bitten. And he stared at Moriarty as if the creature were his saviour.

 

The demon’s smile was a worshipped lie.

 

Moran’s mouth was obscenely lax and trusting as Jim continued his ministrations, touching and probing and caressing his pet’s face with a scorchingly soft delicacy that nauseated the sniper with its illusion of adoration.

 

In the end it was nothing but a show. A reminder of Sebastian's fragility and expendability.

 

He hated himself for leaning into the touch.

 

* * *

 

Moran rubbed his wrists after the removal of his steel handcuffs and pointedly glared at Sally, who in turn regarded him with disdain. Sure the sniper has experienced far worse injuries but the principle of the matter isn’t honesty, it’s rubbing his freedom in that stupid bitch’s face.

 

Sebastian looked up at the clock.

 

1 hour and 29 minutes since his escape from Moriarty.

 

“Here’s your shit.” Sally shoved a cardboard box towards the blond. It contained the meagre possessions previously removed from Moran. The sniper grunted and started looking through it, making sure everything was accounted for.

 

Donovan sighed at the man’s slow pace and then, sick of babysitting the extremely rude individual, left the blond at the lobby counter.

 

Moran didn’t mind, he wasn’t really looking anyways.

 

He was stalling.

 

He didn’t know what to do.

 

It has been so fucking long since his last taste of freedom. Sure Sebastian knew it was really only a couple years or so but god those were long long years. Now there were no orders to take. No bones to break. Just him, his stolen money, and his free will.

 

It terrified him.

 

The werewolf sucked in several quick breaths, a butchered attempt at meditation. He needed to think this through. Figure out his next move.

 

Molly had educated him on everything, on the upcoming Takeover, on her role in it, and on Moriarty’s role in it too. On secrets Moran did not think could be possible and on answers to questions the werewolf never considered to ask. She dropped life changing truths effortlessly as the man could only listen, stunned, caught in a whirlwind of new revelations.

 

The whole thing was an elaborate game.

 

And if what the angel said was honest then there was no way to stop it. No preparation of any sort could prevent (as Hooper called it) “divine intervention”. It was fate. Plain and simple. A deformed abomination of destiny written into the very code of the universe and at least in that respect Moran knew he could not change it.

 

People don’t give him enough credit, the blond’s smarter than he looks.

 

He put on his dog tags.

 

Molly had also informed him of convenient tricks that, as she said, “require next to no magic”, like the symbol used for his escape, like the fact platinum harms demons in the same way iron harms vampires.

 

“But you gotta stab them in the same place; the center of their hearts.”

 

She finally passed him two daggers claiming “it might take him a few tries.”

 

But the werewolf did not kill James. He hadn’t even aimed and missed. No, he had _purposefully_ struck the demon’s hands instead of his heart. The idea of killing his boss seemed so out of his sense of reality that Moran did not even think of it as plausible.

 

Sebastian wondered if Molly knew that.

 

If that’s the real reason she gave him two daggers instead of one.

 

Either way the sniper was the only one truly at fault here he supposes. If he hadn’t been a wuss he wouldn’t have to worry about Moriarty freeing himself and hunting down Moran with the fury of an everlasting disaster.

 

It can be logically assumed that the demon will chase him as soon as he’s able. And he will be able as soon as the platinum burns through enough flesh to allow his hands to fall away willingly. Then James will heal himself and punish Sebastian so murderously that the werewolf won’t remember his own _name_.

 

Moran gripped the box with too much force, causing it to crumple. He began to earnestly retrieve his belongings.

 

He could leave the country but to properly get away he needed to use airfare. Moriarty would probably shoot down an entire airplane just to catch Sebastian again. If he  somehow landed safely before he crashed and somehow made it to civilization even then Jim would track him down.

 

The demon had connections on an international scale.

 

The sniper pocketed the last of his things (a pack of chewing gum) and slumped his shoulders.

 

There was no way out.

 

His freedom was temporary at best...though he guessed that was better than nothing. He should try to make the most of it.

 

As Sebastian turned away, glad to be leaving the wretched place, he caught a glint at the edge of his vision. Swiftly he jerked his head and saw, lying far too temptingly on the countertop:

 

a retractable iron stake.

 

Okay that shit totally wasn’t there a few seconds before.

 

Moran whipped his body around, wondering if one of the policemen had left it here by mistake. Iron stakes are considered sedations to be used only in the most desperate of situations. Since werewolf officers don’t possess any magic the quickest way for them to restrain a vampiric criminal is through iron alone, such as iron bullets and iron stakes.

 

However both of these things, due to their deadly nature, were usually locked up so securely that most officers never even _see_ one.

 

So why was this one lying on the countertop?

 

….

 

Don’t matter. He’s gonna steal it.

 

Sebastian retracted the large stake and snuck the now small weapon into his coat. He left the station with a flair of his worn leather jacket. Iron wouldn’t be much good on Moriarty but hey, he’s not gonna let a golden opportunity like that go to waste. He should take advantage of the situation.

 

He should take advantage of his freedom.

 

Moran smiled as he walked down the street. Overcast skies lit his way.

 

* * *

 

The day Marilyn McClod died, 17 days after the Takeover, the demon gave him a gift.

 

The Collar is simple, a band of black dragon leather with handwritten calligraphy done in gold ink and pretentiously glorified font.

 

_Moriarty_

 

Sebastian smiles like a china doll and puts it on without a word.

 

Then he will blubber broken “thank you’s” as his Master fucks him into the mattress.

 

Later on he will nearly throttle himself as he tries in vain to tear off the cursed object. And when he realizes all attempts are futile he will get under the spray of the shower and try, just as vainly, to scrub himself clean.

 

The Collar rests against his neck like a contract. A promise upheld.

 

Moran’s laugh is as scarred as his skin.

 

* * *

 

The werewolf walked around sorta aimlessly in a coat too thin for the English weather.

 

It has been exactly 2 hours since his break out and Sebastian felt _elated_.

 

He had spent the past half hour gaping at and memorizing London. He felt like a goddamn tourist but hell Moran forgot how good it was to be carefree again. No running from angry “clients”, no fighting blood and teeth to live, no dead man’s guilt on his hands.

 

He felt like he was normal.

 

He felt like a liar.

 

A gaggle of teenage girls passed by the sniper talking in excited whispers and an elderly couple gossiped about their neighbors just ahead and the cars filled the streets in an impossibly harmonious way and all the noise that previously was simply background music seemed so fantastically important now. From the birds to the bangs to the honks of horns.

 

Everything mattered in ways it had never mattered before.

 

And the werewolf was intensely grateful for things that never really belonged to him.

 

Sebastian popped into a convenience store and got a dry pre-packaged sandwich with wilted lettuce and droopy tomatoes and crumbly bread.

 

It was fucking delicious.

 

His next stop was a park. One with not as many tourists as the others and also located near a tiny pond, a sorry excuse for a body of water brimming with trash and spoiled ducks. It was splendid in every way. Moran sat on a dirty splintering bench and threw bits of what was left of his sandwich to the quickly gathering waterfowl.

 

The sniper’s expression was unidentifiably soft. An echo of what joy must be. Every second was valued because it was limited.

 

Even more so now that he was aware of what was to occur. The Takeover will happen 4 years from now. A near genocide with vampires pitted against werewolves. Sebastian had asked if it was going to be like the early days, a repeat of wars fought when humans still roamed the earth.

 

Molly had replied that this was kinda like a rematch. One of the players had whined “best 2 out of 3” and now they were forced to replay another divine game of chess.

 

_“He sounds like an arsehole.”_

_“He is.”_

 

Two particularly obnoxious ducks fought over a slice of plasticy cheese and the sniper chuckled before sobering again. He crushed more crumbs in a calloused hand.

 

The players themselves were still half mystery to Moran. According to Molly there were 3 sides this time around; werewolf, vampire, neutral. One of the goals of the game was to figure out who was who which sounds hella hard but the angel had mentioned one very significant timbit:

 

There _must_ an angel and a demon on each team.

 

Which doesn't seem like the most functional of pairings but hey, who is he to judge celestials.

 

Sebastian chucked part of a tomato at one of the ducks who honked indignantly. He continued flinging crumbs.

 

Moriarty was assigned to the vampires. Molly to the werewolves. Time will reveal the rest of the players along with whatever history will be made this time around.  In 4 years the pieces will be set and then:

 

The game is on.

 

Everything was accounted for (which by the way is super suspicious) Molly convinced him of that. She was so blatantly pointed in her truths about the world and there was so much more to think about. To say. The angel spilled so much. It was as if she had photographic memory, she explained everything.

 

Everything except how Sebastian fits into this plan.

 

The sniper’s hand ceased movement, which angered the greedy ducks. Moran rethought everything in the last two years of his imprisonment. He turned over every moment like an archaeologist inspecting some priceless artifact.

 

He could not fathom his own importance.

 

When the werewolf returned from his mindscape the ducks had already left.

 

* * *

 

“Why me though?”

 

It has been 5 years and 9 months since his capture, and Sebastian sat next to the demon in a black stretch limousine. A panel hid them from their driver.

 

“What?”

 

Moriarty wrinkled his nose. He disliked not being able to immediately grasping a situation, and on top of that he was currently very committed in a very important round of fruit ninja.

 

“I said; why me?”

 

“You know I did not ask you to repeat yourself kitten.”

 

James remained engrossed in his phone, not looking up at his determined sniper.

 

“I asked you to gimme some context love. So gimme some context.”

 

Moran hesitated.

 

“Why...why out of all…”

 

“Don’t mumble sweetheart, you know I hate that shit.”

 

The werewolf coughed and sucked in a breath.

 

“That night when you found me. Why did you take me?”

 

Jim swiped a bomb. Sebastian was aware of the noise but continued on bravely. Foolishly.

 

“You could’ve had anyone you bloody wanted. You still can. But instead you picked some disgraced cannibalistic ex-soldier.”

 

Moran’s voice rose in pitch.

 

“I-I just don’t fucking get it. Why...Why the fucking hell did you rope me out of all the bloody people in _all of bloody London_ into your _fucked up world_ how coul-”

 

Moriarty slammed the back of his sniper’s head against the car window, cracking the glass, one hand constricted the unflinching werewolf’s throat. Sebastian had expected this outcome. He had become desensitized to it.

 

The demon was growling.

 

“You don’t get to ask questions Sebby.” He brought his face closer to his pet.

 

**_“You obey.”_ **

 

The last two words were laced with potent magic and Moran’s head pounded with the pain.

 

James released the gagging werewolf and opened the door on his side of the limo.

 

“Get out tiger, we’re here.”

 

And Sebastian?

 

He obeyed.

 

* * *

 

It has been 3 hours since Moran’s escape.

 

The werewolf was draped over a barstool.

 

More accurately he was draped over the counter of the pub while sitting on a barstool and making goo goo eyes at a luscious curly-haired redhead. Or was she a brunette? What even was her fucking name? Sebastian couldn’t tell, the alcohol made everything hazy. Sebastian didn’t care, the alcohol made everything irrelevant.

 

Though he was sure of one thing:

 

This chick was slamming.

 

This chick was no longer looking at him.

 

Moran looked behind him and saw a group of people enter. A rowdy bunch of friends mixed with acquaintances mixed with arch enemies. Coworkers then. The sniper chugged some beer. But he didn’t understand why they were getting so much attention-

 

A shine caught his eye.

 

One of them wore a badge.

 

_Shit shit coppers shit shit sh-_

 

Sebastian threw some cash in the general direction of the bartender and escaped out the door, entirely forgetting his flirtatious advances.

 

* * *

 

It is 5 years before his capture.

 

And Sebastian's blowing off heads as per protocol.

 

He didn’t think being a sniper for the military would be so much bloody fun but it was. Sure Moran wasn’t that high on the ladder but give him a few years, one day he will rise above all these pissers who don’t deserve their life much less their title.

 

**BANG**

 

“Nice one.”

 

His comrade whistled. They were supposed to be guarding the watchtower together but since Brian can’t shoot straight and there was no one stupid enough to approach the base it was mostly just Sebastian shooting (and killing) whatever birds were blind enough to fly by.

 

“Dude I think that one was a headshot.”

 

The sniper grunted in response, this time aiming his scope at an innocent hare who was about to get owned.

 

“Hey no need to be so serious man. Chill.”

 

**BANG**

 

“No one’s gonna bug us just relax lay back and-

 

**BANG**

 

“....Uhhhh so what were ya planning on doing by joining the army?”

 

“Killing people.”

 

**BANG**

Brian grimaced and chuckled nervously. “Right right. Yeah. But like that doesn’t exactly pay well you know? Unless you’re secretly a famous assassin or something! Ha! Am I funny or am I fu-”

 

**BANG**

The other werewolf coughed. “Okay so dude what I’m trying to say is.” He winked like a sleazy asshole.

 

“How would you like to make some dough?”

 

Sebastian paused mid trigger pull. He narrowed his green eyes.

 

“Doing what?”

 

Brian smirked.

 

“Tiger poaching.”

 

* * *

 

It has been 4 hours since his escape.

 

And Moran sat on the sidewalk outside the bar. In his left hand an empty bottle and in his eyes a sky infested with stars.

 

He looked like a dirty hobo.

 

Well technically in the exact moment he was a dirty hobo but no need to argue over semantics. He just looked like shit and felt like shit and everything was very shitty. Shit.

 

The werewolf ran a calloused hand through choppy short hair.

 

Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years wasted on drugs and guns and listening to fuckheads who ordered you around like a bloody dog. He was supposed to have settled down. Not pick fights not punch back at the kid who stole his lunch money not be sent to a juvenile detention centre not grow up surrounded by the wrong crowd at the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

He was supposed to be _good_ dammit. He could feel it he was supposed to be _more than this_ he was-

 

Fuck. See this is why you can’t be left on your own Sebastian all you fucking do is wallow in useless self hatred you fucking fuckhole of fucktown-

 

The bar door opened and a loud and cheerful and super drunk gang stumbled out. All hailing cabs while chatting their goodbyes. It was the coppers again.

 

Moran ducked his head, slouching even more aggressively. He was unassuming and it was dark. Unlikely for anyone to notice him.

 

Perfect for eavesdropping.

 

The small talk was merry. A man named “Anderson” was going home with the girl from before. What was her name? Suzanne? There’s was a high pitched guy named Fraser who was apparently a touchy feely drunk. A girl named Lucille who was talking way too loud.

 

And there was a familiar voice.

 

“See ya Monday Jefferson!”

 

It was the grey haired guy from before, Moran was sure of it. What was his name? Lestrade? The dude was an enigma for sure. He had let Sebastian go without any questioning or probing. It was as if he had understood (or at least thought he understood) the sniper. The DI was smart, almost clever. What he lacked in academic intelligence he made up for in people skills. 

 

He didn't do the correct thing, he did the  _right_ thing. 

 

This made him dangerous.

 

Fuck. Moran needed to be careful.

 

The werewolf waited until there was no one left except for the old bloke. Sebastian carefully lifted his head and saw the man wave lazily to the last cab leaving.

 

To the blond’s surprise Lestrade didn’t hail a cab for himself. Instead the DI smiled like a passing flashlight through iron bars, and walked, alone, into darkness and curving streets. His steps too firm for a supposed drunk.

 

Moran stared at the werewolf’s fluttering coattails until the dark fabric could no longer be distinguished from the purity of night. The sniper blinked slowly. His frown was small, a slight clenching of teeth.

 

Sebastian pushed himself up and looked back once more in Greg’s direction before making for the opposite way. His steps too uncertain for dignity.

 

* * *

 

At around the same time, around the same place, a curly haired brunette named Angelina (at least for today) spoke into a secure line.

 

“Lestrade has left the pub.”

 

* * *

 

Five minutes after she did so Sebastian Moran was still wandering twisting alleys.

 

He wasn’t drunk enough to not give any fucks about tomorrow and not sober enough to think clearly about tomorrow. It was an unbreakable limbo. Thus he stumbled around apparently uncaring of his surroundings.

 

Which made him a perfect target for a good old fashioned mugging.

 

The 3 other werewolves were around the same build and age as the sniper they were cornering. They huddled around him, slowly approaching while preparing to jump. Taking advantage of their victims delirious shuffling.

 

A chestnut haired werewolf bearing a blue bandana, the leader of the small gang, raised his hand and gave the signal.

 

The most noisy racket of tearing muscle arose.

 

And in the aftermath Sebastian Moran stood bathed in gore.

 

He held in his hands two faintly pulsating hearts and chewed in his mouth the mushy leftovers of what was formerly one. The still living werewolf’s breathing, though deep, was erratic, and bodily fluids had obliterated his clothing.

 

He was a sight to behold.

 

A confused animal stuck in the body of a morbidly psychotic man.

 

“Oh kitten~”

 

A grating sing-song voice.

 

“You’ve been so _so_ naughty!”

 

A silver knife entered Sebastian's small intestine.

 

“Did you really think-”

 

Moriarty forced him against the wall.

 

“-that you could-”

 

He pushed the weapon in deeper.

 

“-survive-”

 

A horrible sound tore out of the werewolf’s throat.

 

“-without me?”

 

The demon’s eyes sparkled with the reflected light of demolished galaxies.

 

“You need me sweetheart.”

 

He kissed away dribbling blood from Moran’s lips.

 

“You need me.”

 

* * *

 

At around the same time, on the other side of London, in an dark and empty street on a dark and empty night:

 

Gregory Lestrade ran into an umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha this is so long oh god it took so long to write and edit holy crabcakes I hope you guys like this cause it is full of my tears and effort I have no idea when the next update is gonna be but I'm hoping it's soon there's so much more left to tell hhhh

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added when needed.
> 
> Feedback is super loved since it's my first fic! I have lots planned for this series though so we'll see how things go.


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